The Painted Past
by Adelaide E
Summary: Draco had always thought her bothersome. Like an annoyingly durable fundamentalist of The Church of Harry Potter. She couldn't leave well enough alone, couldn't imagine letting people be their flawed selves. Like Weasley, for example. DM&HG
1. Which precedes the Second

All concepts, characters, and magical creatures are sole property of J.K. Rowling; here, used for non-profit & purely entertainment reasons.

The Painted Past

By Adelaide E

"This is it, isn't it?" Hermione asked him quietly. "It's happening now."

Ron stared down at her, the vision in his right eye blurred by a steady stream of blood. _Already_, she thought distantly. Already, he was bleeding. The first few seconds of the war and her Ron was injured.

She couldn't stomach the idea. That hated word: War. So misleading, with its promises of victory, glory, and the death of evil. Somehow, whenever she thought of the inevitable event, she had never envisioned Ron getting hurt.

The morning was beautiful and chilly. They hadn't stepped outside, but knew because the windows were broken by the sudden attack, and cold air swept through the corridors. It shouldn't have been such a brilliant morning with the darkness plundering their sanctuary.

"I s'ppose so," he said in a low voice. Or perhaps it had been the explosion that tampered with her hearing. Hard to tell. Hard to tell anything in the grey, chaotic maelstrom happening around them. They found peace—fleeting, no doubt—crouching behind a statue just outside the Great Hall.

"It doesn't make sense," she told him, voice so sensible. "We have hundreds of defenses for an attack. Another reason is…" Ron was gazing at her with something akin to pity, and she looked away. "And Harry hasn't felt you-know-who's presence in months. It doesn't make sense." Later, Hermione didn't know how she did it. To speak of sense and reason, when there were children screaming in pain just a few metres away.

"Hermione," he began, now yelling because another explosion rocked the foundation.

"No!" She was not so calm as she liked to appear, for now her chin trembled and her voice cracked. "No! We can't have a war, Ron, we just can't! We have our N.E.W.T's soon, and I have an exam this afternoon and you have practice tomorrow—"

He had grabbed her elbows, with a grip so strong it shocked her into silence. "Hermione. We will fight."

He was right. _Imagine that_, she thought hollowly. Ronald Weasley was right and Hermione Granger was babbling like an idiot. But the reality had yet to hit her, for she only shook her head numbly. "No, Ron. I can't. I don't want—"

"None of us want to die Hermione," Ron said harshly, still shaking her, still trying to find the calm, collected girl beneath the hysteria. "But we have to fight. We have to protect the younger ones."

"I don't want _you_ to die!" she finished helplessly. A sob escaped her lips, and her arms wrapped around his neck. Hermione clung to him with fervent fear, unable to think of anything else besides him. Yes, she heard the helpless pleas of the first years, and of course she saw the unthinkable injuries of her fellow students…but they weren't Ron. Ron was already bleeding, she reasoned, and surely that was enough? Surely nobody expected him to go charging back into the Hall, where hundreds upon hundreds of Death Eaters were pouring in?

He held her just as tightly, and wondered if she realized that the same fate could be waiting for her. Irrationally, he was angry with her for not knowing that. She was Hermione Granger, for heaven's sake. She knew everything. She should have known that every second just talking meant a wasted second; a second that could have saved another's life. An unshakable resolve hardened within him, and he asked softly, "Where is Harry?"

It was a simple question, and yet sent her into another flood of tears. As if she knew that he planned to assist his best friend in battle. _Preferably_, Ron thought to himself, _with Hogwarts' smartest witch_. They were the Golden Trio, after all. No bloody Death Eater could challenge the Golden Trio and live to tell the tale.

Her shoulders began to shake with her weeping, and Ron changed his mind. He didn't want her any where near the fighting. He wanted her at the Burrow, with mum, making some sort of pastry, ready to eat when all this was over. "Go," he ordered, not sure whether he meant to find Harry or to fly to safety. "Go, Hermione."

"No, Ron, please don't—"

"Where is Harry? We must find Harry, Hermione. He must still be in there, I reckon. I'll go find him. You go find Ginny, and then both of you send as many owls as you can—"

They stopped and stared, for Snape was striding purposefully towards them. Roughly shoving Ron aside, he leaned against the statue and heaved a painful sigh.

"Professor," Ron growled, "there has been an attack in the Great Hall—"

"Shut up Weasley," Snape sighed, "there's been another down in the dungeons." The pair watched in horror as he slid to the ground, unable to support himself any longer. Hermione kneeled closer to the man, and found a deep gash in his side. "Never liked Malfoy much," he said faintly.

"Professor, we have to take you to Madame Pomfrey," Ron grunted as he tried to take on the man's weight. With strength one would not expect from a dying man, Snape pushed him away, and slapped Hermione's helping hands. Ever the ungrateful, greasy bat, to the end.

"She needn't waste time on those who can't be saved," Snape explained gaspingly. "And I just popped up here to tell somebody that we've a two front battle." Ron, concerned with the numbers and location, made moves to interrogate their professor further. Hermione slowly backed away, for she realized that the man was dead. It was the first death she had witnessed, the first of thousands. Ron snarled in frustration, and stood to find a suitable sheet to cover for the corpse. His movement caught her eye.

"Don't Ron!" she cried, trying, in vain, to pull him away. To where, he wanted to know. If Hogwarts was no longer a safe haven, where the bloody hell did she expect to flee? "Ron—what will I do if you—if you don't—"

With a strength that was impossible to challenge, Ron pried her arms off and pushed her away. Roughly, he knew, but Hermione would understand his heartlessness later on. Or so he told himself. "Hermione, this is more than you and me. This is about the world as we know it."

She was furious. In all their years together, Ron had never seen her so livid that she trembled with rage. When she roared her reply, the volume rivaled the death cries of the impromptu soldiers around them. "There is no world if you're not in it!"

"Don't be daft," he replied coolly, and shoved her in the direction of the Gryffindor tower. "Go, and find Ginny. The twins, if you can."

For a brief moment, he hated himself. Ron nearly suffocated with the amount of guilt caused by the lost, helpless gaze in his fiancée's eyes. Unable to stand the thought that it was the last vision he had of her, Ron swiftly caught her hand, and whispered urgently, "Sum presentialiter, Absens in remota."

It wasn't enough. They didn't feel adequate to her, those age old words of comfort. But it was all he could give at the moment, and Hermione accepted that.

She smiled tremulously, before turning and dashing away. Ron thought he heard her promise that she would return, but couldn't tell amidst the chaos.

There were no tearful hugs, nor desperate kisses. No time for that nonsense. And they did not cry out "I love you's" from across the halls, for they knew that already, and would not waste precious breath in repeating it.

He watched her depart, cringing when rubble or a hex would barely miss her tiny frame. When she was finally out of his sight, Ron absently wiped at his eye before marching into the Hall.

Hermione did return. Ginny had told her not to, that it was too dangerous, but Ginny simply didn't understand. She had to see Ron.

And she did. Hogwarts not only lost the battle, but also a vital part of their Golden Trio.

xoxox

_"What're you studying?"_

_"Latin, I told you already."_

_"What's this? Ouch, don't snatch, you horrible thing, you'll leave paper cuts."_

_"It's…It's…"_

Hermione's eyes fluttered open as an irritatingly bright morning poured through the windows, and she was drowsily surprised by the amount of effort the simple action required. In fact, it felt as if her entire body was weighted with faint pain. Thank heavens this bed was so soft…

Wait.

Whose bed was it?

She sat up, and her head protested the immediate action. Completely disoriented by her ill condition and her mysterious location, she laid back down with a loudly dismal sigh. With her limited view, she saw a large room filled with antique furniture and foreboding paintings. Various magical devices decided she was not at her parents' house. It was tastefully decorated in forest green and blazing gold. The colors reminded of the long forgotten rival between Slytherin and Gryffindor. It seemed so trivial now. After everything else…

The self pitying sigh brought another out of his sleep. "Hermione? Are you awake?" Hermione, stifling a gasp, turned to her right, and found none other than Draco Malfoy sitting in a chair near her bed.

_Well_, her mind contradicted timidly, _we don't know if it's your bed, per se…_

She gathered her wits, and snapped tiredly, "Unless I've found a magical way of sleeping eyes wide open, I suppose I am."

Instead of retaliating, Malfoy's gray eyes narrowed and he quickly strode to her side. She was slightly disturbed at how tall he was, but then realised it was due to her current supine position. There would be little chance of injuring him while simply lying there…

All martial thoughts vanished when Malfoy placed a gentle hand on her forehead. "Love, illness is not a feasible reason to get testy with me."

Hermione stared at him, taken aback. There were so many wrong words in his sentence…she didn't know where to begin her horrified dissection.

Her mind, however, recuperated splendidly. _Let's start studying that ring on his finger. On his left hand…_

_No_, she decided in a near panic. She did not want to think of that now. Not when that hand started to stroke her hair in a decidedly tender manner.

_All righty then_, her evil subconscious switched topics, _how about the ring on _your_ finger of _your_ left hand…_

"Eep!" she let out, startling Malfoy away. Never mind the fact that him leaning over her was surprisingly familiar. As a matter of fact, this entire scenario was familiar. Waking up on this side of the bed, in this particular room, seeing his benign face…déjà vu.

No. No, no, and, for emphasis, _no_. Waking up with Malfoy was not something with which she would ever grow accustomed. When her enemy raised a pale eyebrow, Hermione explained herself quickly. "The ring on my hand is in no way related the ring on your hand. Got that?"

Married? At _eighteen_? It was _insane_! Of course, the idea of matrimony directly after graduation did not seem so terrible with Ron, but _this_ was an _entirely_ different situation…

"Erm…" Hermione smirked when she observed that Malfoy was clearly scared by her malevolent tone. "Dear, I think you're still a bit under the weather." His hand, unfortunately out of Hermione's sight, dropped to rest on her stomach. She slapped it away. Never mind the fact that her mind whispered that he had done that before.

"It is Granger to you, Malfoy. And you have no right to—"

She was prepared to say "touch me" but he had raised his hands in surrender before she could finish. Still, she was not pleased.

"You have no right to tell me that I am under the weather. I'll have you know that I am no where under the weather. I am level with the weather. As a matter of fact, I am so far above the weather, I don't even see the weather. _That's_ how far above the weather I am!"

By the time she finished with her insensible tirade, Draco had risen and distanced himself safely from the bed. After he gulped, he managed to say, "Is this some sort of metaphor for saying you're high?"

Malfoy had learned a thing or two from Quidditch. So dodging her angrily thrown pillow was fairly simple. The bed side lamp landed squarely on his chest, however, and Malfoy glared at the adorable witch on his bed. "Dumbledore warned me you'd be a bit out of sorts after the accident, but he never mentioned flat out insanity," he wheezed as he sorely made his way back to his chair.

"Dumbledore knows I'm here?" Malfoy nodded. "And he's allowed it?" Another nod. "Has he gone senile?"

He almost nodded again—for he learned that was the best way to avoid arguments with women—when he belatedly realized her question. "No," he replied, confused. "In fact, if he were to speak against a husband and wife living together, that would have called to question his faculties. Still," Draco added, laughing to himself, "He said the craziest thing the other day. Claimed that the petrol jelly beans weren't that bad—Hermione? Love? Dear?"

No use. She had fainted.

"Damn."

He set about reviving her when a well placed kick in his thigh successfully distracted him.

"Mione," he ground out, "if this is how you treat family, I'd hate to see what you do to the enemy."

"You _are_ the enemy," Hermione retorted angrily, and sat up against the head board. Malfoy stared at her in wonder.

"I'm what?"

"You are the enemy."

"Since when?"

"Since first year!"

"Oh Merlin," Draco sighed in exasperation and sat on the bed. "I thought we got over the Hogwarts drama."

"How can we get over something that we are still in? What?" Hermione noticed he was staring at her with obvious concern etched on his face. There was something wrong; besides the obvious fact that hell froze over and she and Malfoy were married. Hermione could not shake the feeling of dissension within this universe. She could not easily place her finger on it, just as one could not discern the hidden discord in an entire symphony.

"Hermione," he said carefully, scooting closer. "What is the last thing you remember?"

Her chocolate eyes darkened considerably, and her entire body become taut with fury.

"The battle, you git. The battle against your father and the rest of the bloody Death Eaters." Hermione looked away and took a deep breath. She would not show weakness before Malfoy. She refused to, despite the dark and chaotic images this conversation resurrected. Her mind made a futile attempt to ward off the past. Seven hours of pure hell.

_Don't think about it now…_

Her professors' valiant last stand to protect the children; Snape the first to die. Madame Pomfrey's honour as she tended the wounded pupils, evil or good.

_Let's just tuck the pain away, forget the cold the past brings…_

Dumbledore's indescribable power as he towered fearlessly before the squad of potential executioners. Harry's determined green eyes flaring as he searched for and found the Dark Lord himself.

_We'll live with the memories some how…_

She remembered the twins' search of their youngest brother and sister in the horrible combat, only to find their final resting places amidst the rubble. That was only half way through the battle.

And Ron's last kiss on her bloody lips before he turned away. To wait for Harry to join him at the end of the Great Hall. She remembered being dragged out of the most dangerous site by Zacharias Smith, watching in terror as the great doors swung shut with finality.

Hermione saw him, but not for as long as she liked. She never saw his very last minute, she never heard his very last breath. All she had to remember was him turning away. To die, leaving his girl all alone in that world he had just sacrificed himself for.

_Please, let's just think of happier things…_

But she couldn't. Not with the vision of Ron's handsome face, covered in soil and grime and blood of fighting, staring at her with such longing. She would give anything to see him again, if only for a second. To see him, to hug him, to clean him up and say, softly, "You have dirt on your face? Did you know?"

The sob escaped her lips before she could help it. Things weren't supposed to go so wrong that day. She had awoken that morning, thinking the worst of the day would be a Latin exam. She had passed out when she lost the only man she had ever loved.

Two strong arms enveloped her, and Hermione leaned into the warm chest before her.

"Hermione," Draco said thickly. "That was nearly a year ago."

She didn't listen. She couldn't, so lost in her grief. Her voice became dark and scratchy as she remembered Malfoy's particular role.

"You were a Death Eater," Hermione accused in a hiss. Draco did not release her, though the tension in her frail body frightened him. "Just like your father." It was not fair to remind him, Hermione knew. Lucius had died at the First Battle, apparently not as powerful as he liked to believe.

"We all bear the marks of our past," he murmured nonchalantly. Hermione eyed his arm, seething as she pulled back the sleeve to reveal the condemning brand. Draco gave a bitter smile. "Of course, some of our marks are more obvious than others."

Oh yes, they had scars. How very well she knew that. Even a few of the youngest students became horribly disfigured after the First Battle. If the Death Eaters could not kill all, then they ensured that the lucky survivors would remember the suffering. Be it a cut or a burn, a lost friend or a lost sense, they would remember. Hermione, burdened with so many wounds she had lost count, realized that the bastards had forced her to lose her sense of hope.

She wanted to fight this supposed Death Eater before her…but god she was tired. She could no more fight than a blind man could witness another dawn. What was the point? The dawn came, the sun warmed them, but that sightless man couldn't see it. And Draco was within her reach, and he was vulnerable, but there would be no triumph to shine through if she attacked.

Draco hugged her tighter, forcing her to return to the here and now. "Hermione, listen. I think the lab explosion might have affected your memory. The First Battle happened a year ago." Was it a lie? Hermione harbored no ill will towards illusions and lies at this moment. For Truth only offered a grey and unchangeable past. "Hermione, don't you remember anything since then?"

"What are you talking about?" she asked, lifting her tear stained face to his own. Draco fought the urge to kiss all her worries away. He recognized that frozen landscape in her eyes, and fought doggedly to thaw it. He would not lose her to memories, not after he had warred against all the other odds to win her now.

"Hermione—"

"Granger," she corrected coldly, though made no movement to escape his embrace. Draco smiled, and took it as a sign she was softening.

"If you insist on last names, I'll have to call you Malfoy, which you are inexplicably calling me. It will be quite confusing when visitors come for tea. 'Malfoy,' one will say, 'I adore your hair, whatever do you do to it?' Then they will have two answers at once. One about good conditioner and the other about getting struck by lightning."

Against her will, Hermione giggled and allowed him to wipe the last of her tears. As small as the success was, Draco beamed happily as if he had saved the world. Then she registered the first part of his silly little speech.

"Erm…did you say my last name is now Malfoy?"

"Yes. Hermione Malfoy, the Beautiful and Brilliant."

Hermione was considerably less enthusiastic about the apparent name change. His optimism was dangerously contagious, she noted.

"Uh…did a strange twist of fate link us to be long lost cousins?" Draco, now perplexed, shook his head in a negative.

"Did I have to assume an alias to avoid Death Eater bounty hunters?"

Again, he told her no.

"Well," Hermione asked, a bit desperately, "did you adopt me?"

At that, Draco did not even answer. He was too busy chuckling. "Oh, that explosion addled your brains all right. Honestly. Adopt you?"

"What explosion?"

"At the lab," he explained patiently, and kissed her cheek chastely. Her skin tingled, much to her bewilderment.

"What lab?"

"Your Potions lab. You're the Potions professor at Beauxbatons."

Hermione shifted, and then glared at her so called husband. "This is a trick."

"I beg your pardon?"

"None of this is true. I would never become a Potions professor, nor would I teach at that school. And, really, isn't it a bit silly for me to go directly into the work force without getting some sort of university education?"

Draco gazed around the room, as if in hopes of finding someone to support his claims. Instead of waiting for his response, Hermione scooted out of his arms impatiently. "Where am I?"

"Our home," Draco answered, bewildered. His wide eyed, pouty lipped expression reminded Hermione of a little boy asked to recite all the ministers of magic in alphabetical order.

"And why am I here?"

"Because you had an accident and the headmaster gave you a few days off. Bloody well should have, in my opinion. Imagine! Only a month for your honey moon—"

"Stop talking, please," Hermione requested politely, trying with all her being to erase his last two words from her mind. "When may I leave?"

Now, Draco Malfoy was positively dumbfounded. "Beg your pardon?"

"How soon will I recover and when may I leave?"

"Look," Draco began roughly, and pushed himself away from the bed. "I know you're not overly fond of this abode, but it is my inheritance and I won't deny it. You needn't fake amnesia to try and make us move to a nicer place."

"Don't be ridiculous," she muttered crossly, inwardly wondering what the hell he was talking about. Hermione wasn't completely comfortable with the fact that she and Draco had spoken of domestic matters. It seemed so utterly…married. "I don't give a damn about this house—"

"Castle," he corrected off handedly.

"Castle. All I want is to find Dumbledore and get this marriage nonsense straightened out."

"Now you sound like your Gryffindor mates," Draco said darkly, and Hermione witnessed a ghost of the Malfoy she once knew. He threw his hands up in the air in surrender. "All right. I'm going to owl Pomfrey and Dumbledore about this." With a brooding and injured air, Draco swiftly turned and strode out of the room. She thought she heard faint grumblings of "Marriage nonsense my arse."

Fifteen minutes later, Draco found his newly awakened bride standing on a chair, attempting to see—or escape—out of one of the high windows. He gently cleared his throat, but went ignored. Remembering his successful attempts of humour earlier, Draco gave a feminine, "Hem, hem," and saw her flash him a quick smile.

"Just…er…observing," she trailed off lamely. Cautiously, she stepped off the chair, and gingerly made her way to the bed. "How many stories are there?"

"Er…by appearances, five. Magically…who knows?" He shrugged and sat in his chair. "Don't fiddle with that," he scolded when Hermione absently tugged on her various bandages. They covered her wrist to her elbow, as they were the closest body parts to the supposed miscalculated cauldron.

"You were gone for a while," she noted awkwardly, and sat on the bed. Far from him, he noticed, a bit hurt. Apparently regaining some spirit, Hermione added snidely, "Couldn't you have just sent one of your house elves to do your bidding?"

"All right," he sighed and traversed the room to stand before her. An action that made her even more uncomfortable. "A, considering our 'till death do us part' situation, it would be _our_ house elves. And two, I had given them all your damn kidney shaped hats."

Hermione was slightly stuck on the "A,…two…" thing until the last part of his explanation hit her. "You…you…freed the house elves?"

"You wouldn't even consider it until I did," he shrugged.

"Consider what?"

"My first proposal. Very poetic, in fact. Three stanzas about your hair, your eyes, your ars…" Hermione glared. "…your aspiring mind," he quickly saved.

"There was more than one proposal?" He nodded simply, as if this was all ancient history.

"Let's see…I proposed only two days before the Fifth Battle. And, after various ploys, string pulling, and several heart scars later, I proposed an hour after the seventh and Final Battle. Which was, you should know, nearly six months ago."

"That must have been romantic," she responded dully. "You on one knee, amid the blood and gore."

"It should have been," he agreed lightly, missing the sarcasm in her tone, "if you said yes. But no, I had to go and get almost killed before you even admitted you loved me."

"How could you have gotten almost killed _after_ the Final Battle?" At her question, Draco looked sheepish, and shuffled from foot to foot.

"Buckbeak really holds a grudge…rotten animal, if you ask me. We had to use all the creatures we had to fight the Death Eaters. Then, of course, we had to round them up again. Have you ever seen Longbottom on a hippogriff? Graceful as…well, himself."

"Oh!" Hermione let out in frustration. "God damn it all to hell! You're not supposed to be funny. It will make this more difficult to get annulled!"

"Beg your pardon?" he asked, voice a bit cracked with panic.

Hermione gave one of her patented know-it-all looks. "Regardless of what you say, Malfoy, I can't stay here, being mistress of the house hold, if I can't remember _becoming_ mistress of the house hold. Don't you think it would be fair if I left for a while?"

"As in…"

"A separation."

"Beg your pardon!" He couldn't help his rising volume. "We're barely newly weds!"

"That's simply hear say," she dismissed carelessly.

Draco began to pace, unable to deal with this new disaster. "Simply hear say?"

"Yes, as in I _heard_ you _say_ it. Rather unreliable source…I must apparate to Dumbledore. Or Mrs. Weasley, if she's available. Oh and my parents, while I'm out…"

Something flashed in his bright grey eyes. "You can't leave me."

Hermione braced herself for a psychotic spiel concerning her as an eternal possession of his and all that cliché rubbish. She was then disappointed by simple logic and irrevocable truth. Damn the reasonable ferret.

Draco shrugged apologetically and said, "Reasons beyond my control, actually. Your wand was broken in the lab accident. Mrs. Weasley is attempting to get Ginny settled in Romania—she believed a vacation with her older brother was best for the little girl's nerves."

Hermione frowned, and wondered if the Weasley's lost more than Ron and the twins. With all her heart, she sympathized. Draco, oblivious to her stab of concern, continued to speak.

"Your parents are recently emerging from the Ministry's witness protection program. It will be a while before we get their exact location." Hermione started, but knew Dumbledore would never let her parents in harm's way.

"And Dumbledore is tremendously busy overseeing the reconstruction of Hogwarts. Had a devil of a time catching Fluffy after the mongrel was set loose after the Third Battle. At this moment, they're constructing a tunnel so that the horrid thing can come and go as he pleases. No bloody use, if you ask me, now that the Philosopher's stone is gone. But I suppose that Hagrid character would want the tri headed freak to stay out of pity. Same business with Grawp, though I can't imagine any use for _that_ thing—"

He was babbling, and he knew it. Hermione knew that he knew it, and furthermore, knew that he knew that she knew it. It was a bit endearing, this pitiful attempt to distract her. It was also rather unnecessary, considering how stranded she was. No wand, nobody available, and injuries to boot.

"Harry's alive, isn't he? If Voldermort's defeated, then Harry must be alive."

Draco managed a safe distance between them before answering. The action was enough to fill Hermione with painful apprehension. Various explanations filled her head, and each one included words of the end of his life.

"Well…we could only assume."

"Wait—" Hermione interrupted when she realised the word "dead" was not involved in his response. "What do you mean? Where is he?"

"I—er—we…couldn't find him. There was, of course, a final show down between the two. I swear, Hermione, Potter was bloody brilliant."

At that, Hermione's eyes narrowed, waiting for the sneer that revealed his comment as sarcastic. It never came. Instead, in his gaze shone sincere admiration.

"I never knew a wizard could be so powerful. I'm sure even Dumbledore, if he were there, would have been impressed. Then—they vanished. Not for long. We theorized that Voldermort had brought a portkey with him. Dumbledore suggested that they must have battled where Voldermort first emerged. Some time later, when we all had given up hope, he reappeared."

"Was he injured? Did he have amnesia too?" Draco shook his head, eyes downcast.

"No, Hermione, you misunderstand me. Voldermort reappeared, dead. Naturally, that means that Potter's alive. Some where…we just don't know where."

Immediately, Hermione's chocolate eyes became watery with the news. A split second later, she told herself to be thankful that her friend was alive. Ginny must have been devastated. "But," she asked in a small voice, "where was I?"

"At Hogwarts. We all were. That's where battles one, three, five, and six took place. Two occurred during a Puddlemere Quidditch game. Nasty bastards, attacking during when those crowds least expected it."

Hermione was beginning to doubt this was the real Draco Malfoy at all, considering he was uncharacteristically regretful of innocent people's deaths. Perhaps she had been kidnapped by a deranged zombie look alike…

"Course, bloody idiots deserved it. Who the hell participates in or attends a damn Quidditch match in the middle of a war?"

Then again, there was a strong possibility this was the real Draco the Arse Malfoy.

"The seventh happened at Christmas. Most of the houses stayed to help defend. Joining Dumbledore's Army, eh?" Hermione gave a ghost of a smile, and bade him to continue. "And we fought, because half the time we were under siege, and the other we were to afraid to leave. Hufflepuffs especially, stupid prats."

"Is that idiot Fudge still Minister?"

"Oh no. Demoted, naturally. Couldn't get a job any where, poor bloke. But Dumbledore took pity on him and made him Mr. Filch's assistant. Until he could find something more lucrative, of course."

Hermione smirked weakly. "Of course."

Draco edged to the door again. He had been talking so long he felt an ache in his knees. Simultaneously, they noticed the waning light pouring into the room.

"It feels strange to tell you this," he admitted softly, and stared at her beautiful face. "After all, you had seen more combat action than myself. Ministry invented a badge, you know, for the likes of you. You, Ginny, Seamus…that's how brave you were. That's how well you fought." His silky voice lost its energy when Hermione's eyes remained perplexed. "You really don't remember?"

Draco grew ineffably depressed when she merely shook her head. "We'll just wait until Dumbledore replies."

"I hope it's soon," said Hermione when he faltered. Draco didn't know whether to be relieved of disappointed by her eagerness.

"I'm going to make supper," he announced, and grimaced at the thought of it. Draco threw her a reassuring smile before opening the door.

"Mal—I mean, Draco? One more thing?" Hermione's tone was carefully polite and, if he didn't know any better, sweet.

He paused, summoned another winning smile, and turned to her again. "Anything, dear."

"Could we have separate sleeping arrangements, if you please? Until I regain my memory, that is."

Draco regretted his promise of "Anything." But her eyes looked so hopeful, and her soft pink lips trembled slightly as she awaited his answer… Malfoy sighed, and couldn't help the anxiety in his voice.

"But…what if that takes days? Weeks…oh Merlin." Here, Draco shuddered. "Or months?"

Hermione gave another sugary sweet smile. "Surely, Draco Malfoy, there is more to this marriage than sex?"

His response was thoroughly male and without contemplation: "But that's the _fun_ part of marriage!"

Which was how he found himself shoved out of the room, with a door slammed in his face. With a smile, Draco sauntered down the shadowy corridors happily. Whether she realized it or not, Amnesiac Hermione had just committed a very wifely act.

xoxox

Supper included nearly burnt soup, cold bread, and a Malfoy. Not her ideal dining arrangements.

Of course, the food was hardly enjoyable. But what made it unbearable was that he insisted on spoon feeding her, in between loving glances. It was disconcerting.

Hell, it was more than disconcerting. It was terrifying.

Because it almost felt like…Hermione was loath to admit it but, it felt as if she had instigated this Malfoy problem.

_The beginning of sixth year, when the world was still a pretty picture only marginally marred by evil. Pansy had publicly quarreled with Draco near the end of breakfast. Hermione had heard it from Harry, because she had missed the fiasco. She had been too busy in the Gryffindor common room, arguing with Ron._

_"And then she said," Harry hooted mirthfully, "that he could never satisfy her. That his kisses couldn't thaw an ice cube!" He stopped his chortles when he realized neither of his best friends was listening. "Right. I'll just go find Ginny."_

Looking back on it now, she couldn't even remember the subject of feud. Most likely something incredibly trivial, such as homework or school rules. But Ron, being himself, had said something so irritating that Hermione stormed out of the room without any of her books.

_As a prefect, she did not want to receive detention from Snape so early in the year. Tardy for retrieving them, or unprepared for abandoning them. She managed to wrangle a sick note from Pomfrey before heading to Hagrid's hut._

_Hermione, however, had been so angry with her Ronnie-kins that she had fostered a momentary hatred for all males, even the giant, gentle hearted ones. Her feet led her astray, and she was hardly aware of her destination. "The brutes. The insensitive brutes. The insensitive, dumb, shockingly smelly brutes. The insensitive, dumb, shockingly smelly, utterly incurable brutes."_

_"I see you've found Potter and Weasel's true nature?" a cold voice drawled._

_Startled, Hermione skidded to a halt. A good thing too, considering she was ready to walk into the lake. Slowly turning, she found a rather lonely looking Draco Malfoy sitting on a large rock._

_She said nothing. Neither did he. For a few minutes, both simply allowed the sounds of the water fill the silence._

_"I suppose you've heard?"_

_"What?" Hermione asked._

_"That I've been dumped by pug face."_

_"Oh," Hermione replied nonchalantly. "Yes, I heard something about that."_

_"She'll come crawling back," Draco asserted, though with less confidence than usual._

_"Yes," Hermione laughed gently, "you keep telling yourself that."_

_He frowned sulkily and stared at the water. "Skiving off class, Granger?"_

_"I am ill."_

_"Like hell you are."_

_"Well, you're not in class either."_

_"I'm doing field research."_

_"Are you really?" Hermione asked, curiously , and stepped closer. Excitement bubbled inside her, and wondered which class required data gathering. She would be sure to do her best—_

_"Yes," he answered. "We're in a field, aren't we?"_

_Her shoulders slumped, and all the academic excitement ebbed._

_"What is it with you women?" he exploded suddenly after a lapse of silence. "Why the hell does it have to be so damn complicated? You say one thing, but you mean another. You do one thing, in hopes the complete opposite will occur. I just don't understand it!"_

_"Er…I'll need an example…"_

_"Shut it, Granger. I'm not about discuss my love life with the likes of you."_

_"Please don't," Hermione replied with sincere horror. "Any romance of yours would give me night terrors."_

_Draco twisted his lips to deliver a biting retort when he suddenly sighed with melancholy. "Yes…I suppose. I didn't make Pansy very happy."_

_"Pansy is hardly ever happy."_

_Draco straightened and told her icily, "She managed to be somewhat satisfied with me."_

_Hermione rolled her eyes and stepped closer. "You don't want to be with someone who is 'satisfied' with you. Nor vice versa."_

_"I don't? Advise me, then, you insufferable know it all."_

_"Honestly, the gratitude in the love-challenged is shockingly lacking," she chided. "You want to be with someone who makes you happy. Not just satisfied as one is satisfied with barely successful spell. You want to be completely and wonderfully happy with them."_

_"And I suppose Weasel makes you happy?" At the turn of the tables, Hermione shuffled about uncomfortably._

_"Most of the time, yes."_

_"But that's not complete."_

_"No, I guess not."_

_"May I have a favour?"_

_"No," she answered, not missing a beat._

_"An experiment," he rephrased, hoping she would rise to the bait. Predictably, Hermione's mahogany gaze sparked to life at the word._

_"Oh! All right then! What's the hypothesis?"_

_"Any girl will develop feelings when kissed right."_

_"No," she refused, blind to the gleam in his grey eyes. "It's too narrow."_

_"Fine," he sighed. "Any girl will develop romantic feelings when handled physically in the correct manner."_

_"Oh no," she disapproved again, "that's too lewd."_

_"Leave all the perverted thoughts out, please Granger," he snapped. "Pansy said the most horrible thing this morning. And I'd like to know if it's her, or my technique."_

_Hermione crossed her arms, and tapped her foot sternly. "If you are suggesting to use me as the guinea pig, I happily decline. There are many unsuspecting sixth years, however, who would be delighted to fall for your charm."_

_"Yes, but they already have developed feelings for me. I'd like to know if my technique is persuasive enough on somebody who hates my guts."_

_"I hate more than your guts, Malfoy."_

_"Duly noted, but you can't possibly hate my hair," he said, a bit vainly._

_"No."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because…oh you should be the one coming up with reasons. You, the muggle born hater?"_

_"Yes, so you hardly matter to me. I wouldn't dare attempt this with a pure blood. What if her parents told my parents I had been leading her on for a snog experiment?"_

_"Oh my," Hermione said dryly, "I just may swoon with those flowery words."_

_"Oh come off it," Draco sighed impatiently. He stood, and towered over the much smaller girl. "I don't see what harm it would do. Besides," he added when Hermione shook her head again, "I could always tell Snape you weren't exactly under the weather today."_

_"Do you know what? I hate you."_

_"Will you say the same after our kiss?" he challenged._

_"We're not going to kiss—mmph!"_

_She had been ready to let loose a rather acidic expletive when his lips descended on hers. And while she couldn't argue that his lips were very soft, his tongue most stimulating ,and his hands terribly knowledgeable in the ways of physical pleasure…_

_Hermione did not feel one ounce of excitement._

_It went on for quite sometime, because Hermione was confused as to why she didn't feel anything with such a good kisser. The setting was perfect as well, with the bright sun, the pristine lake, and…_

_Ron, somewhere in the school. Oh dear, how she missed Ron. Even if he was a dumb, insensitive brute, kissing Malfoy made her ache for one of Ron's sweet butterfly kisses against her skin._

_Draco pulled away, breathlessly. "Well?"_

_Hermione, thinking of a certain red haired boy, only smiled with her eyes still shut. Draco shook her, and demanded an analysis._

_"Hmm? Oh, what?"_

_"The kiss, Granger. How was the kiss?"_

_Despite his hard tone, Hermione could see from his expression that he desperately wanted her conclusion. Perhaps even his self esteem rested on her next words. It wouldn't have been very charitable to say that his kiss did not light one spark of fire within her, and most likely never would. After all, some mental case would someday find his romantic attempts delightful. Stranger things did happen._

_"I…er…" Draco's hopeful gaze stared unflinching at her mouth, and Hermione struggled to keep an honest expression. "You know what Malfoy? I detested you before but…" She pictured Ron arranging a smiley face out of her bacon, and flashed her nemesis a dazzling smile. "I think I may like you a bit more."_

_"You're not joking?" he persisted and released her from his suffocating embrace. Hermione smoothed her hair and straightened her uniform before answering._

_"Yes. Parkinson is dead wrong, you know. You kiss very well."_

_Draco was torn between arrogance and gratitude. He settled somewhere in between. "Thanks, but I already knew that." Upon seeing that his self confidence was still intact—something Hermione wasn't sure she was pleased about—Hermione gave him a giddy good bye and skipped away in search of Ron._

Looking back, perhaps it wasn't the wisest lie to feed him. Especially now, since he was feeding her, pretending the spoon was a Fire bolt. When he was done tending to her as if she were completely invalid, he proposed helping her into her night gown. She refused and sent him on his merry, lonely way.

But Hermione was not a completely heartless creature, even when it came to the matters of her enemies. She had noted his frequent yawns, his gaunt appearance, and the dark circles under his eyes. Nevertheless, he was wholly attentive to her needs. Despite his evident affection and devotion, Hermione was bewildered that no similar feelings were stirred in her heart. What she felt for Draco now was, at best, reserved for intimate friendship. But nothing of romance. Nothing of marriage. Nothing of love.

It was a restless night for her. Sporadically, she was attacked by bouts of paranoia. What if this was a hallucination? What if somewhere, she lay in a coma, and this was an elaborate dream? If not paranoia, then guilt. For if this wasn't fiction, and Draco and she were truly married…it must wound him terribly to gaze lovingly into her eyes without some emotion reflecting back.

What was irksome, however, was his overall devotion. Fluffing her pillows, tearing her bread for her, and all that nonsense. She may have been injured, but she was not a completely useless idiot.

Ron never did that. Considering all her accomplishments since their first year of Hogwarts, the fiery Weasley understood she was no damsel in distress. Even after they officially became a couple, he was not the sort to take her books, nor open doors for her unless she asked it of him. He, just as she wished him to, treated her as an equal. A "bloody brilliant" equal, to quote him exactly.

But he was by no means indifferent, either. Hermione smiled to herself as she donned a lacy night gown, and remembered how Ron always seemed to know when she needed a laugh, or a hug, or—heavens forbid—a break from studying. Once, in the middle of a trying Transfiguration exam, her eyes flickered once to Ron. It was his silly, cross eyed expression that kept her from fainting with stress. A similar occasion arose when she struggled to keep from hexing Bulstrode during one supper. She had sat on the bench, ears nearly smoking with anger from an insult, when she looked across the table to Ron, who had watched the whole exchange. She had been so angry until then that she only glared at her poor, innocent food. A decidedly inelegant guffaw tore out of her when she saw he had impaled two baby carrots on his canines, and said in his best imitation of his mother, "Now Hermione, there are starving animals and vampires all over the world. Surely you wouldn't let that food go to waste?"

Never mind the fact that anything with those types of fangs were most likely carnivorous, and wouldn't care for her vegetable dominated meal. And never mind the fact that, after a playful shove from Harry, Ron then nearly choked on the aforementioned carrots, turning an unhealthy shade of magenta. And never mind the fact that Bulstrode really did deserve a hexing. Hermione sighed with a wide smile, and murmured a spontaneous "I love you," causing another round of almost choking.

He knew her, perhaps better than she knew herself. Tears dropped, unnoticed, onto her lap as she climbed into the enormous bed.

She hoped that, for all he had done for her, she had been able to do the same.

Hermione tossed and turned, failing to find a comfortable position. It was understandable, when one took into account her wounded arms, her recent amnesia, and the fact that the love of her life was still dead.

xoxox

Her eyes were duller at breakfast.

No, not duller. Draco studied them again as they silently ate once again in their bed. More like…jaded. Perhaps because she was starting to believe him. Malfoy looked down as soon as she felt his critical gaze.

He had foolishly thought that once she realized the truth of the situation, they would be happier. It did not take long for him to sort out the reason of her sudden sadness. She still missed him. She still missed that dead weasel.

"You know," said Draco conversationally, nearly startling his young wife. "You can't get this annulled." His subconscious told him this was not the best way to comfort her. But part of him didn't give a damn about comforting her. Perhaps it was because old habits died hard, he did not know why; all he knew was that if repeated persuasion would not work, then he would have enforce their marriage legally. Unfair intimidation be damned.

"I'm sorry?" was all Hermione said, suddenly torn from her silent reverie.

"Ministry's laws say a marriage cannot be annulled if consummation had already taken place." With guarded eyes, Draco observed her disgusted expression. "Old fashioned, yes." At least, he hoped the disgust pertained to the law itself, and not the idea of sharing a bed with him. "Under recent events, the laws are undergoing major reconstruction, but I doubt they'll rush to reform the domestic aspects."

_Divorce then_, her mind immediately replied, though not aloud. For some reason, she sensed now was not the time to test Draco's patience. Especially since his entire aura was so cold and menacing. Hermione watched curiously as his uncharacteristically expressive face came to a decision.

"You can manage on your own, right?" he asked distractedly. She nodded, and Draco left immediately afterwards. She did not see him until noon, when she wondered if she would be forced to navigate her own way to the kitchen. Before that, Hermione spent some time studying their chamber. The night prior, it had bothered her that her pillow smelled like her own hair. And the dressers and shelves were littered with her books, and pictures of her families and friends.

One photograph that particularly startled her was one that sat in a simple wooden frame. Written elegantly at the top was, "Our first picture together," in what she could only assume to be Draco's writing. It was taken with her mother's camera, so the four figures in it remained stationary. She, Harry, and Ron smiled widely for the camera, while far in the back was the fuzzy image of a boy. His pale blonde face was in the process of turning away, but not so quick that it could not be captured by the shutter. Draco had circled her face as well as his, pointedly ignoring the two other males in the photograph. Silly boy.

That was at the train station, just before seventh year truly began. Even in the amateur photo, Hermione recognized the haunted gleam in Harry's green eyes. Her eyes fluttered lovingly to Ron, who was, by his own words, not the handsomest man in the world… But to her, he was. She wouldn't have changed a single thing about him.

The rest of the room was typical Malfoy fashion. Rich, but dark, tasteful yet somehow sinister. Even a snake decorated bowl of candy sitting by Draco's side of the bed, each piece wrapped in green plastic, appeared ready to kill anybody within reasonable distance.

Her stomach rumbled unexpectedly. At the same time, a knock echoed throughout the room. Without waiting for her answer, it swung open, revealing a triumphant husband.

"Dumbledore should be arriving any minute," he informed her haughtily. Draco stared at her expectantly, and Hermione was tempted to perform a little jig with winning sarcasm. Instead, she looked behind her with obvious puzzlement.

"Er…am I supposed to do something?"

"I wasn't looking at you," Draco snapped, with his usual boyish charm. Hermione rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "I was looking at the wardrobe," he explained, tone softer.

Still a bit confused, Hermione turned around as well, and stared at the enormous mahogany wardrobe with uncertainty. Of course, there was always that muggle book, but surely Dumbledore would not fall prey to such a cliché. Aloud, Draco said, clearly amused, "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardr—"

A door swung open.

xoxox


	2. Which proceeds the First

**Dastardly Snail: **So very close to biting the dust, and then you go and boss me around. So here I am, living and reviewing because some dashing mollusk orders me to. :0) Any way, I will answer your q all in due time. (which means never, insert evil laugh)…

**Amaris: **Heya, can't answer any of your questions as that would ruin the story. Sorry to keep you "awaiting impatiently" for so long!

**Oli: **I'll leave off the "2" in your name, as you're the only one I know. Hey girl! Haven't written to ya in a while. So how have you been? Didn't know you liked the Potter fics as well! Any ways, yes, I suppose Draco does deserve some pity, though I'm sure things will get better for him. I hope you like it so far:0)

**Stephanie:** I'm so glad you think so. With all the Draco/Hermione and Ron/Hermione fics out there, I wasn't sure whether mine made much of a splash. Thanks for the encouragement!

**LFC-Angel: **Hi, and thanks for taking the time to review. You're the first to prevent my review-less death. I'm sorry it took forever, and I hope this chappie is satisfactory!

The Painted Past

Chapter 2

**If thou be foul, I shall thee make clean;**

**If thou be sick, I shall thee heal;**

**If thou mourn ought, I shall thee mene;**

xoxox

Looking at the chuffed husband, Hermione suddenly wished it wasn't her former headmaster climbing out of the wardrobe, ready to tell her of her married status. Her heart beat erratically as one foot gingerly stepped out of the furniture, followed by another. She closed her eyes, desperately wanting whoever it was to be a wrong visitor.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Malfoy."

She stumbled against a bed post, unable to tear her eyes away from the haggard headmaster. The poor, old man. The poor, tired, _terribly mistaken_ old man. His voice was so kind and soft that it was hard to deny his obviously deluded words.

"I understand your wife has a medical problem, young Draco?"

"Other than the inability to stand, you mean?" Draco observed, insulted by her behaviour. "No…Dumbledore, I believe you've done enough."

Hermione let her hair fall as a curtain around her face. She bit her lip, hating Draco, hating Dumbledore, hating anybody who said rubbish about marriage…

Her involuntary sob settled it. "Really, Dumbledore," Draco said quickly, moving to her side, "I think I might have scheduled this meeting too soon. Wait a second, while I help her out."

She sobbed again, furious and ashamed for her tears. Blindly, Hermione allowed Draco to walk her to the loo, all the while whispering comforting nonsense in her ears.

"Now you stay here," he murmured in concern, seating her on the sink. "Dry your eyes…freshen up." He tried to smile, but found it an impossible task when faced with her heart wrenching eyes. "It will be all right, Hermione. I'm going to make it all right." Reluctantly, he left to see their former Headmaster off before returning as quickly as possible.

He found her just as he left her.

The sobs had halted, thankfully. Hermione simply at there, empty gaze lost in the past. Tears continued to stream down her face, and a shudder possessed her once or twice.

For a while, the two remained cloaked in silence. What words could have been said? they would later muse. She was, in her mind, trapped in a marriage she had willingly entered. And he was happily married to a woman who had reverted to her school girl days. If he had said anything too soon, Draco realised afterwards, it would have been in anger. Anger at her for forgetting their love. Their love, which had meant so much to him, so simply swept away by one single, mishap.

And if she had said anything too soon, Hermione thought after the ordeal, it would have been in desperation. To find a way, if he pleased, to end this. To stop this charade, carrying on something so sacred as marriage with one sided affection. Maybe she thought she loved him once, but not now. And she was happy for the potions accident to make her realise that.

But neither spoke very soon, and crickets chirped innocently before Draco said a word.

"I suppose you're hungry," he said in a colourless voice.

He was hurt, Hermione noticed, but she did not make any movement to comfort him. Nor did she feel any urgency to ease his pain, as Draco often demonstrated for her.

"No," she answered softly. Indifferent was her demeanor. Draco watched, pained to unspeakable intensity, when she splashed water onto her face, and left him without one jot of concern for his well being. She did not care. Even after Dumbledore, she did not care. Hermione's back faced him as she calmly strode to their bedroom.

Draco's hand clenched and he was abruptly filled with glacial determination. He would make her care.

Hermione let out a shout as his hand painfully gripped her arm, spinning her around. Still, she did not fear him, despite the fact his grey eyes were nearly murderous; despite the fact he had slammed and locked the door shut. She could almost hear Ron laugh, _"It's just Malfoy. He's just a stupid ferret."_

"You can't hurt me for not remembering," she told him shortly.

It only doubled his ire. Malfoy was livid. "I would never! Bloody hell, Hermione! I love you! I always have!"

"No you haven't. This is a recent development." Hermione paused, and added with emotionless malice, "Perhaps it will go away with time."

It wounded him, and part of her loved it when she managed to wound him. Another part flooded with guilt, of course, but right now her mind looked for someone to blame. Someone to hurt for all the maledictions placed upon her during the last year. And that only someone available happened to be her husband.

His bad luck then. "Is it so horrible?" he asked, chest heaving with barely leashed rancor, "Is it so horrible to be loved by me?"

Her mouth said what her sense of self preservation told her to hold back: "You're not Ron Weasley."

"Damn right I'm not!" he roared, and slammed his fist on the desk in anger. Hermione stared at the clenched hand, and wondered if that strike had been meant for her. A few more heart beats of silence as Draco composed himself. "Love is love, Hermione. No matter who it's from, it's still pure in its purpose, and in its being. I may not have been a saint, but what I feel for you is good. Can't you understand that?" Hermione looked away, hating how his pleading tone affected her. "_Won't_ you understand that?"

Her sympathetic mind whispered that even demons were allowed to love, despite the inevitable death it would bring them. But she did not want to see Draco die from his affection's lack of nourishment; suffer perhaps, but not die. She said nothing, afraid of rubbing salt in the wounds. And she would. With the memory of Ron and school so fresh in her mind, Hermione knew she would.

"Hermione please… Won't you understand how happy you made me when you said yes? I thought I was hallucinating. I believe I snapped, 'Hermione, I must be really injured. I just imagined your proclamation of love.' Do you remember?"

Draco dropped, exhausted, into a chair, and stared at her with mingled love and anger. "Damn it Hermione. You've become the most important person in my life…possibly the only person in my life. And yet you become sick with the thought of being with me. Why?"

"It's not that I'm sick," Hermione corrected in a shaky voice, tears beginning anew. "It's just that I'm scared. I understand your level of love with only one person, Draco. And he's gone. And I don't remember when I've ever looked at another boy, let alone flirt, let alone kiss, let alone date… So this marriage business terrifies me Draco. I'm scared and I don't know how to—"

She sat on the edge of the bed and faced him. Her eyes willed him to understand. "I don't know if I can."

"Is it so horrible to be loved by me?" he asked again, expression unreadable.

She only shook her head. "In my mind, I've only been loved by you for a few days. I really don't know how it _feels_ to be loved by you."

"Are you willing to learn?" Draco slowly stood, and closed the distance between them. Hermione, refusing to be a coward, met his gaze directly.

"Learn again, you mean?" she asked timidly, and focused on his chest.

He paused and gave a wry grin. "Yes, I meant again."

The storm in his eyes conveyed too much emotions for her to handle at the moment. "No, I don't think so."

"I won't force you. But I could teach you…"

"Teach me to love a ruthless, cold hearted bastard?"

A soft touch brushed errant curls from her face, and moved lovingly to stroke her cheek. "You should know," he told her in a shiver-inducing whisper, "that I've become ruthful, the war has de-bastardized me, and you've managed to warm my heart."

"Oh honestly," muttered Hermione breathlessly as Draco bent closer to her, "if you expect me to fall for that line—"

He did, apparently. Otherwise, he wouldn't have kissed her. And she wouldn't have accepted it.

Like she remembered, Draco kissed wonderfully. Except this time, it was different. Instead of the mechanical manner of kissing that he displayed before, the kiss seemed infused with genuine emotion. His hands cupped her head as he gently kissed her again and again, tasting her mouth with tenuously leashed passion.

But she didn't want it. Her mouth longed for Ron's heartfelt kisses, his inexperienced but enthusiastic hands. She wanted that love, that naïve longing. Not this; this jaded, cold marriage.

Hermione's hands clutched at his shirt in a vain attempt to push him away. But Draco was stronger, and hardly registered her resistance. Instead, he gently leaned forward, lips constantly pressed against hers, until she was lying completely on the cloud like bed.

Fear growing rapidly, Hermione wrenched her head away as she sank beneath his body. "Stop," she gasped softly, "please Draco…"

His lips, losing their counterpart, merely moved to her neck. She hated how good it felt when his tongue darted out to taste her skin, and she hated his hands persuaded her into wanting more caresses. "Stop it, Draco. Stop right _now_." In response to her panicked plea, Draco gently pushed her chin to face him once again, and captured her lips in a searing kiss.

A quiet whimper, barely audible, forced him to pull away suddenly. Wide grey eyes stared down at her with evident panic.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?" Hermione shook her head, for she did not trust her undoubtedly wobbly voice. "Hermione, honey, I would never hurt you." He rolled off of her to lay beside her shuddering body. It appeared that he could not stand broken contact, for his cold fingers wove through her hair incessantly. Despite her denial of injury, Draco was still worried.

"You know, don't you? I would never hurt you." Hermione sighed and nodded once. "And you know that I would never make you hurt yourself?"

_Oh lord_, Hermione thought guiltily. She had scared him to the point where he no longer made any sense. With a small smile, she caught Draco's fingers with her own, and held his hand tenderly. "I know, Draco."

"Please don't be angry," he continued anxiously, "it's just that, for a moment there, it felt like you were you again. The real you. Not this confused you I suddenly have to cure." He paused and said with a tiny smile, "I have half a mind to close down Beauxbatons for inspections. What kind of idiotic students do they have any way? Who blows up a simple colour changing potion?"

Hermione felt a surge of protectiveness for these students she could not remember. "Draco, honestly, they're just children."

"Children who think they're twice the wizards than Hogwarts alumni. Bloody arrogant arses."

Hermione laughed with an indelicate snort. It was funny, to witness Draco grow angry with children, and ironically call others arrogant. Draco smiled as well, and kissed the hand that held his own.

"May I—" Draco cleared his throat "Er, can I…"

Hermione decided to put the poor man out of his misery. "You may spend the night here," she asserted. Draco gave a throaty laugh.

"I was going to ask if I should get supper."

A warm rouge graced her cheeks, and Hermione bit her lip. She wondered if it was proper to take back the invitation, when Draco reached pinched her nose. "Ow."

"Don't worry. I won't seduce you with my wily ways." Hermione snorted and he decided to ignore it. "Sorry to disappoint, but I'm so tired all I can do is sleep."

"Are you going to have supper?" she asked, suddenly remembering her earlier hunger.

"Oh," Draco yawned, "I don't think so. You know the way to the kitchen, don't you?"

Hermione pinched his nose, more painfully than his first offense. It stopped him mid yawn.

"Of course I don't. And I don't want to starve either."

Draco sighed and grumbled before he pulled out his wand and lazily conjured her a meal. She wondered why he simply did not do that before, since the food was of better quality when magically produced. Before she could scold him, Hermione turned to find her husband fast asleep against the cushions.

Contentedly she ate her meal. Content but not happy. She was not happy to suddenly find herself married to a stranger, and she was not happy to know she played a vital but forgotten role in the War. But her happiness did little to change the present event.

So she decided on contentment. There could have been worse people to be trapped with in holy matrimony. At least this one did not snore. Hermione savoured her chicken soup as she thought of the worse possibilities. Crabbe or Goyle for instance. She would undoubtedly spend the entire day saying things like, "That light is coming from the sun, Crabbe," or, if she had married the other buffoon, "You must turn the knob before pushing the door, Goyle."

And there were worse places to live, though her ideal home had been a cosy little cottage with Ron. A dark, musty manor was far better than…oh, a light and airy cardboard box. How would one arrange furniture in such limited space? And what colour scheme would one use if the walls changed shade and texture with the rain?

And there were far more horrible jobs, though her dreams of becoming a Healer or Hogwarts professor were now hopeless dashed. Presently at least. And maybe those "idiotic" students of hers had charming accents and beautiful manners. Who knew? She had the present after all, and the present could always be changed to affect the tomorrow. All she had to do was figure Malfoy into the equation.

She finished her meal, and prepared for bed in the loo. He may have been her husband, but she still would not have put it past him to sneak a peek at her while undressing. With an amused smile, Hermione found a very disappointed and awake Draco reclining in their bed when she returned.

"I missed you…"

"While I undressed?"

"Yes, that part in particular. What _are_ you wearing?"

"It's a nightgown," she informed him wryly as she clambered into bed. During the short time she was away, Hermione noted Draco had changed into pyjamas, and yet the top half was missing. She wasn't sure if she was more impressed with his lean physique, or blinded by the unhealthy paleness.

"It's a cottony fortress," he corrected with disdain, and pulled her body close to his. Fighting his pull was difficult, considering his bed was customized with the standard villain's black satin sheets. With his weight creating somewhat of a crater in the bed, she would have slid towards him any way. Draco tugged at the laces at her neck. "Napoleon couldn't have invaded this thing," he complained.

"I doubt he would have been able to reach the lacings," she laughed.

"Ah, so Mrs. Malfoy has grand illusions about her own lacking height."

"If compared to a freakish giant like Mr. Malfoy, then yes, I would be considered somewhat short." He only grunted a noncommittal answer, and became temporarily obsessed with loosening the laces at her wrists.

"Your arms for god's sake. Your arms don't need protecting from a husband. Why on earth would a nightgown be possessed to deny a husband his wife's arms?"

"Haven't an inkling," she answered carelessly. "I didn't know you took Muggle Studies."

"Didn't."

"Then how did you know about Bonnie?"

"Oh him?" Draco smirked triumphantly when he managed to untie one complicated knot. "A squib, that one. Didn't you read that nonsense of about the Napoleon inferiority complex?"

"Of course. But that was stature."

"He didn't care about his height. I think that man really cared about was the size of his—"

"Don't be lewd."

"Criminey, I was going to say horse. Get your mind out of the gutter, Hermione."

She stuck her tongue out at him, and was warned in a rather husky voice against repeating that action. Then Draco loudly smacked a childish kiss on her cheek before reaching over and switching off the lamp. As the moon light crept softly into the quarters, Hermione listened as Draco's breathing gradually became light and slower, until she was almost certain he was near sleep.

"Have you a library?" she asked suddenly and loudly as the thought struck her. Unfortunately, the question was posed directly beside his ear, so that he registered the volume but not the words.

Draco bolted up right, and quickly looked left to right. "Potter did it!" he mumbled in drowsy panic before remembering where he was. Draco gave a sheepish grin before laying back down beside her.

"Potter did what?" she wanted to know. He only shook his head with a secretive smile and asked her to repeat her question.

She did so and Draco laughed. "Of course we do." A shadow stole over his aristocratic features.

"What is the matter?"

"I haven't repaired it yet. I meant to, but then I got the owl about your accident."

"Repaired it from what?"

"The last of the house elves weren't too thrilled about their knitted gifts. They threw quite a fit."

Hermione frowned at him, struggling to understand. "Last of the house elves? But I thought you had freed them sometime between your second and third proposal?"

He paused, meeting her searching gaze with one of his own. "Still don't trust me?"

"No," she answered truthfully.

He wrapped on arm around her before answering. "Like I said, we students stayed at Hogwarts. I had to owl my 'neutral' neighbor Purchair to liberate them, as you say. But he responded declaring that he would not give any of his own clothes to the cause, and nor would he brave the Malfoy's closets. It took some time to find two owls long and strong enough to carry a package of hundreds of ugly hats—"

"Ugly hats?" she repeated, offended. He did not notice.

"Don't be silly, I sent the ugly socks, ugly mittens, and ugly scarves too. Once we were married, we only came to the Malfoy Manor to pack, unaware there were stragglers. Once the honey moon ended, you immediately left for your professor position, and I was left to find all sorts of nasty surprises at home."

"If the First Battle occurred in January—"

"And the Final in December—"

"Then what am I doing teaching school in the middle of July?"

Draco removed his arm around her shoulders, and simply folded his hands over his chest. With a sad sigh, he stared into the silver and black planes of the vaulted ceiling. Quietly, he asked her, "I don't know if I could get used to you distrusting me again. It hurt quite a lot before, I recall. I'm not sure if I could handle a second round."

Guilt doused the growing flame of suspicion in her mind. With a tragic sigh of her own, Hermione slid closer to wrap her slender arms around his neck. "Draco, I don't distrust you. I would just like to know, that's all."

"It's a summer program, for those whose education was interrupted by the War." He paused, and looked to her again. "You'd like to find a wrong stitch in the tapestry," he corrected in a detached tone. "You want a reason to tear this all up. To throw it away and denounce it as flawed and useless."

Desperately, Hermione scattered three kisses along his jaw. She remembered Ron used to like that just before an important game. "Draco, please, don't talk like that. I just don't remember. I just want to remember."

Draco's piercing gaze slid to her. "Do you really?"

In the shadowy world night had trapped them in, Draco appeared unlike himself. Cold and older in the silver beams, yet the dark made his eyes so large and dark they reminded her of a little boy. Hermione steeled herself, and placed a quick but loving kiss upon his lips.

"Yes Draco. I want to remember so I can be the girl you fell in love with." The stiff mask never left his visage, and Hermione pulled away in disappointment.

His hand darted out quick as lightning to bring her close again. Not to kiss, though she wouldn't have fought it if that was his intention. Instead his other arm draped across her back so that she laid on top of him, and her intrepid eyes met his.

"You already are," he assured her forcefully. "Don't try to be anything that's not genuine, Hermione, or I will fall out of love with you. I mean it." Hermione flinched as the hold on her waist tightened, and Draco sighed with self reproach. His arm loosened and he smiled apologetically.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I feel as if you may go any moment."

"Why?"

He shrugged, and idly ran his fingers through her chocolate curls. "Do you know the feeling of doing something wrong, yet getting away with it? Conquerors, for example, steal a domain from a king. Then they fend off the rightful heirs, the other intruders, and their own people. It takes more energy, I think, to _continue_ to get away with something wrong. To keep it up, knowing it should have never been done in the first place."

Hermione small hands played with his loose hair, and she wondered when he stopped drenching it with gel. "Do you think our marriage is wrong?"

"Hell no," was the instant answer. "But everybody else did. I've fought two battles the past year, Hermione. One against the bad people, and the other against the good people. Both sides thought I didn't deserve your love. Both sides thought I shouldn't dream of such a connection. I fought so hard for you, Hermione. I fought so hard to even claim the right to love you. I fought so hard to even be considered worthy.

"When you fight so hard and finally win your prize…it seems a bit surreal. Do you remember how you would say after each fight, that there was always a next fight? No? You did, and some people didn't understand. Because they were naïve. I understood. I understood that after the fight you didn't think about how it was a step closer to victory. A battle was just a step to another battle. Our victory was too far away and too perfect to even think about.

"You were too far away and too perfect to even think about, Hermione. Or so I was told. D'you know, Charlie nearly had one of his dragons barbecue me when he learned of my crush on you? Terribly ironic, don't you think, Draco killed by dragon?" He paused, but she did not match his chuckle. "Hermione Granger was too good for me, I was told. We showed them, didn't we?"

His eyes were too bright to be sincerely happy, and Hermione only nodded, spellbound by her own fairy tale romance; complete with dragons. Draco stared at her before yawning tiredly.

"When you have such a struggle for somebody, your worst nightmare is that, one day, that somebody is gone. My worst nightmare is an empty home."

She was wrong to think that the War hadn't affected the cold and proud Malfoy. Hermione recollected the jaded slate eyes that lingered on her as she tended to the wounded after the First Battle. As if he expected such carnage, as if he welcomed it.

Oh, but it had touched his mind. Hermione slid forward against his body to place a kiss on his forehead, and wished the insignificant action could wipe away his pain. Nobody should experience betrayal on both sides. Nobody could be threatened by his fellow soldiers. Nobody should have to win, only to lose by some cruel twist of fate called memory loss. Yes he had her, as his wife forever. But he had lost her as well.

"I will love you again," she promised as his eyelids fluttered shut, his pale lashes forming yellow crescents against his skin. It could not be so hard, she reasoned, to learn to love a man with both inner and outer beauty.

xoxox

Hermione's dreams said otherwise.

Yes, oh, yes she was happy again. Happy and content.

She was happy, although one spoon fell. Although two others were in Mortal Peril. Ron's spoon fell, but she'd forget that, just for now. Just for him.

_What's the difference,_ her Ron wanted to know.

She didn't answer. It wasn't important. Nothing was more important than him, here, lying next to her in a carefree earth. He was here and she was happy.

_Am I dead?_ he asked her, but he didn't want an answer. She didn't want to give one. Never mind his bloody wounds—what the hell?—he was here and she was happy.

Sky, clouds, rain, snow, moon, sun…they passed over them…

_Oh they pass over everybody_ Hermione noticed and kissed Ron and cradled the head that showed a huge gash…

_But they're passing over us_, Ron pointed out scared but not scared. Oh hell, she was smart enough for both of them and she would tell him when to fear.

She didn't know what he was talking about but oh how sweet he smelled…how sweet were his blood filled kisses—oh no—

They don't notice us

She kissed because that was all she needed to live on. Ron's kisses and his heartbeats could sustain her until the end of time.

They don't see us

_Not even the end of time,_ Ron promised, _past that. We'll live forever you and I, because we're two of a kind. I love you more than reason should allow._ But Reason was her best friend.

They won't care if we're here

She shuddered—the earth shuddered—as he left crimson trails as he caressed her golden skin.

_What is that_, Ron wanted to know. _Why am I doing that?_

We could stay here forever, where nobody will find us.

It didn't matter, _hurt me, hurt me_ Hermione invited. _Hurt me, and I'll still love you._

_Bloody Hell_, Ron said—_that's where we are, in bloody hell_

_Hell is heaven with you, hell is not hell._ Did she say that aloud? God she hoped so, she hoped he understood that.

Golden, rolling hills and overly flowery love. Damn! Damn! More blood! Blood and sun beams, red and gold, Ron and Hermione…

_Am I dead_, Ron wanted to know. _Am I dead?_

Dead was just a word, it was just an ugly sound. Was a word supposed to keep them apart? Was a sound strong enough to separate them forever?

_You are Ron_, she said instead and kissed him. _You are Ron and I am yours._

_Forever_

_Death has claimed me. You have claimed me, _poor Ron said, so confused, always confused. The universe never informed him of such things, things that concerned him.

_Look into my eyes_, Hermione invited, and_ find life._

Why not? Why not? Her life was tethered to the life behind his eyes, and so his was to hers. Why not, why not?

Ron searches—hurry now, hurry, before the gold tarnishes and blood dries—and searches but can't find his life (is it really there, my love?)…

_You have another now._

xoxox

"Jesus Christ," she gasped as she awoke. It had felt like a nightmare, and left all the remnants of a nightmare—her rapid heart, heavy breathing, and frozen mind—but yet it wasn't. It had been so calm, so deceptively peaceful…

The wardrobe suddenly shook about so loudly it jerked Hermione out of her thoughts. "Boggart," Draco mumbled sleepily—an irrational explanation, she later found, considering Dumbledore had used it before—before patting her in good night. Her dreams were nothing like the ones in stories; coherent, meaningful, filled with plot. No, her dreams were fragments, insensible flashes of images that carried her from one torrent to the next without repose.

For her safety, she decided to think of something warm and comforting just before she slept. The tatters of a cosy conversation conveyed her to slumber.

_"What're you studying?"_

_"Latin, I told you already."_

_"What's this? Ouch, don't snatch, you horrible thing, you'll leave paper cuts."_

Of course, the same voice gradually changed into something darker, something more sinister. And, try as she might, she could not control it.

_Did you betray me, Hermione?_

Where was his face? She wondered. Where was that happy, freckled face that she loved so much? None, none, just the shapeless darkness before that she used to love.

_Did you betray me?_

_No. _Colder now, but did he care?

_Stupid whore, of course you did._

_You died._ It was so easy to say that in dreams, but Reality was a tougher place.

_Happy with the fact, aren't you?_

_You're dead. You can't hurt me._ She knew it in her mind, but her heart contradicted.

_You'd be surprise._

_I love you._ The truth would only trap her. She should have fled by now but the ice paralyzed her.

_I hate you._

_I love you with all my heart._ Scylla and Charybdis, love and hate, both led to death by his tender hands.

_And now I'll cut it up._

A rough hand shook her shoulder, which sent her careening into the conscious world. Her mind vividly pictured to bloodied golden land, which shifted into slithering darkness, and she desperately held fast to Draco. She did not want to be pulled back, even if Ron awaited her. It was horrific, to revel among the ruin and swim in the crimson streams. It was unspeakable, to find him so changed and murderous.

She clung to him, frightened to uncontrollable tears, afraid that one false move would snap her back to the nightmarish world. Hermione would not let go, she would never let go—

"Hush now, you're all right. You're safe now." He held her with equal intensity, as if Draco himself was afraid a monster—or worse, somebody long dead—would come and snatch her away. "I won't let them get you, Hermione. You're safe."

She wanted to believe him, with all her heart she wanted to. "But it had been so real," she sobbed, burying her head in his shoulder. He repeated the comforting words, and held her close. The tears would not abate, and he cradled her tiny form in his arms for a long time. They both knew the truth. She was not quite ready to love him yet.

"You will go into the sunshine today, all right?" he told her in a fatherly tone. "You've been cooped up for far too long. And you'll explore the rest of the castle. I'm going to get you back to normal." In spite of his exhausted appearance, Draco stared at her with such determination that she almost believed him. Hermione needed to believe him.

"It's nice here," she said, filling the peaceful silence. He nodded, but offered no reply. "I think I hear the ocean. Are we near the coast?"

"England's a bloody island," he answered affably, drawing her to a stop. "Everything, in perspective, is near the coast."

"Don't be a wise arse," she retorted, and then lost her smile. Draco did not push her, knowing that whatever troubled her would come out soon enough.

"Do dreams indicate insanity?" she asked quietly as noon rolled around. They sat on a bench in the middle of the garden. Draco had decided to sit instead of stroll because Hermione had appeared a bit fatigued, and he had tremendously exerted himself when subduing a few untamed plants that needed trimming.

"You're not insane, Hermione," he replied as he discerned shapes in the clouds that passed by.

"I don't think I'm quite right in the head."

"And what a pretty head it is."

"Don't patronise me, Draco."

"I'm not. I'm just trying to make you feel better."

"It would make me feel better if you addressed this issue. Did I have dreams of Ron before?"

"If you did, you never told me."

"Did I have nightmares before?"

"Yes, just like me, just like everybody else on this god damn planet."

"Are you angry at me for dreaming?"

"No. I'm angry at your dreams for existing."

"Damn those dreams," she said mockingly.

"Damn those dreams to hell."

Hermione placed her small hand in his, and interlaced their fingers. "What do we do now?"

"We make you get better."

"And if we don't?"

"We will." Simple conviction in his voice, nothing more, nothing less. But it was enough. Whether or not she had classified her feelings for him, Draco clearly loved her. And he would do all that he could to protect her.

"Will you tell me about them?"

"No."

"Why not?"

She shivered, and the cool breeze was not the culprit. "They're ugly."

"Nothing of your mind could be ugly."

She glanced side ways at him, briefly flashing an amused smile. "You'd be surprised."

He stretched, and draped his arm around her shoulders. Draco then quickly stifled a yawn, hoping Hermione would not catch it. "Yes, I would be, but I am no longer surprised at being surprised. Full of a million tricks, you are."

"A million?" she laughed. "You underestimate me. Trillions, at least."

He rolled his eyes. "Do you ever tire of being so intelligent?"

"Nope."

"Pity, because the rest of the world does. You think too much Hermione."

Her grin died, and she stared across the walk way, into the malicious marigolds. "Ron would say things like that."

"Might have been the only intelligent thing he ever said," Malfoy said with sleek cruelty. Hermione stiffened with the insult, and attempted to shrug off his arm. No use, though, for he was determined to speak his mind.

"I don't pretend to admire him, even if you're in pain and even if he died honorably. I hated him, Hermione, and if he were still alive, chances are I would still hate him."

"Why?" she demanded with strained anger. "What did he ever do to you? You already classified and discarded him by his name even before you met him. You hate so blindly, Malfoy—"

"Do you think he heard that name with loving openness?" he challenged. "Do you suppose 'Draco Malfoy' only meant to him a possible friendship when I introduced myself?"

"It's so simple to manipulate things to make yourself an innocent victim of circumstance. You hated him, Malfoy, while he only disliked you. And you don't have one damn good reason to base that hatred on."

"I had at least one."

"Which is?"

"He had you."

"Oh really," she goaded, words coated with biting sarcasm. "Were you disgusted that a pureblood should stoop so low as to love a muggleborn?"

"Actually, that might have been the only thing we had in common."

Hermione, incensed that he stubbornly kept a hold of her, turned her head and bit his hand. With a yelp, Draco released her, so that she stood directly before him in impatience.

"What then? What gives you the right to think so ill of him?"

"It doesn't take a right to hate somebody, Hermione. Flimsy excuses are enough to merit hatred. And you've already heard mine. _He had you_."

"You didn't give a shit about me."

"On the contrary," Draco contradicted as he nursed his hand. "Up until sixth year, I most likely thought you lower than shit."

"Draco," she began warningly.

"Don't like the truth, eh? Were you hoping I had a more sinister reason to detest the Weasley?"

"No, I—"

"And I hated the fact that he suspected it, despite his lower than dirt IQ."

"Suspected what?"

"The fact that I thought you marginally less disgusting than before."

"Stop," she deadpanned, "the romance will overcome me."

"Be realistic," he snapped. "I wouldn't have fallen in love with you because of a measly kiss during a chance meeting."

"You forced that kiss on me!" He ignored the outburst.

"And that Weasley knew, and made sure I never got close enough to you. Stupid, really, considering I didn't even have the slightest urge to touch you."

"Again, the compliments are flooding in."

"Women are so easily offended," Draco chided with small smile. "Didn't you notice it? No, I suppose not. I just liked looking at you. That's all. Not to find a flaw, not to plot ways to seduce or kill you, and not to irritate him. I just liked looking at you. There's no sin in watching somebody, and memorizing their face, is there?"

"I suppose not. You stared at me all year?"

"Yes." She frowned, and wondered how a girl as perceptive as herself could have been so dense.

"The view must have gotten boring once in a while," she teased playfully.

"Oh, of course. But once in a while you would get a blemish, or a bogey. And then it would take me days to adjust to the gross change." She swatted at him.

"And," Draco added after a pause, "we had decent conversations, once in a while, didn't we?"

"Yes," she agreed and seated herself beside him again. "When Ron wasn't around."

"It was the only way, to woo while the weasel was gone."

"You were not wooing me. And don't call him that."

"But you see," Draco continued as if she hadn't spoken, "I didn't know how to court you exactly, considering… Well, you were different and you were smart, and you gave me hell before I could even make a good impression."

"I didn't know it was possible."

"For me to make a good impression? My dear, you wound me."

"You joke around now, but if I had known then what I know now…"

"What? You would have ignored me? Highly impossible, being Head Boy and all."

"An accomplishment I still can't quite grasp. Did your father…?"

"Oh no," he laughed softly. "All on my own grades, thank you very much. Did you know, that Zabini was almost up for Head Boy? 'Shame about his accident, though."

"Were you friends?"

"Our families associated with each other, naturally. He didn't believe he could fulfill the duties with only one leg. Which teaches all the little kiddies a valuable lesson as to why one should not attach rockets to a Firebolt. I bet it was his older brother who convinced him to do that. That bastard was always tricking Zabini into hurt himself, poor bloke."

"You can pity a boy for losing a leg, but you can't even speak properly about one who died?"

"Merlin's arse, are we back on this rubbish again?"

"It's not rubbish."

"Look," he sighed, with an exhausted expression worthy of Atlas, "can we not, at this moment? Can't we just sit here and enjoy each other's company?" Because his grey eyes were so weary and his tone so pleading, Hermione nodded, and pushed aside the issue for now. At his invitation, she rested her head on his chest, and she felt his chin rest in her hair. Draco let out a satisfied sigh.

She had to admit that, despite its over all evil nature, the garden was quite beautiful if one only looked and did not touch. Hermione was surprised by the pleasantness of the situation. During the battles, she would have never expected to be sitting quietly in her own garden, with her protective husband holding her. It seemed like such a faraway and impossible goal at the time. Especially since her planned husband had died in the first battle. And after that battle, every battle was just a battle…

She remembered! At least, part of it. Hermione recalled her own, scratchy voice telling a first year, "A battle isn't a step closer to victory. It's just another step closer to another battle."

She was ready to inform her husband when she heard a resounding _thwack_, and Draco pushed her shoulders away to glare at her.

"Did you just hit me?" he asked, bewildered. She mirrored his dumbfounded glance and shook her head. They both turned to the weeping willow behind them. Cautiously, Draco extended one hand to touch a thin leaf, and the entire branch reached forward to slap the offending hand, leaving a red welt. "I must have dozed off and leaned back farther than I thought," said Draco with a pout. The entire tree ruffled with apparent pleasure. "I hate you," he told it childishly.

Hermione laughed, which did not please him in the slightest. "I'm going to cut that down," he said angrily. "And those roses that tried to lunge at you earlier. It's a mad garden."

"Well, then, why do you have it?"

"Mother used to send her unwanted or rude party guests into it. And then she'd lock the gate."

"I bet she was a lovely woman," Hermione said neutrally.

"Aesthetically, I suppose," Draco agreed. "But, between you and me, I think she might have been a bit nutter."

"Did you send her to St. Mungo's?"

"No, don't you remem—right, you don't. Hermione, I don't know where my mum is. She could be at the North Pole or burrowing in my backyard for all I know."

"And your father?"

"Dead, of course. You know that much, right?"

"I originally believed it a fortune too good to believe."

"I'll diplomatically interpret that as 'My condolences.'"

"What about Crookshanks?"

He paused and stared at her. "What?"

"My cat. My lovely little cat." Honestly. Just because virtually everybody hated it, and the War had eradicated almost everything dear in her life, and she was now faced with the task of being Mrs. Malfoy, Hermione was not about to suddenly ignore the existence of her familiar.

"Of all the things to ask about," he sighed, eyes pointed heavenward. "It's around, I suppose."

"Don't you know?"

"Or maybe he made it into the garden," Draco added, with ill concealed glee. She guessed he was not a Crookshanks fan either.

"Don't you feed him?"

"No, nasty little bugger swipes at me any time I reach for it. But I assume he's eating the various creatures around the castle, for he continues to live."

"Really, Draco, that's a horrible attitude."

"If I had a worse attitude, he would be dead by now."

He took her on a tour of the house before they returned to the kitchen for dinner. The owlery was to be found at the edge of the garden. Most of the owls had been black, and she thought she saw a crow or two among the messenger birds. One particularly lovely one had been cream colored, with burgundy flecks on its wings. Hermione expressed her admiration for it, and Draco informed her it was hers. The library door had been shut, and he promised they would spend the next day sorting it out. They did not tour the lowest level, which she assumed held dungeons.

He redressed her bandages, and Hermione as ashamed to keep her eyes shut tightly as he did so. Inexplicably, the sight of her own injuries sickened her, and she concluded it was best that she did not become a Healer.

"Seasoned warrior," she muttered to herself as they slid beneath the covers. "Surely I had worse injuries in battle?"

"Probably," Draco answered, "but then again, you had something to focus on other than your own wounds." Hermione accepted the logical explanation, and settled against him.

Normally, such close contact meant embarrassing discomfort for Hermione. She recalled being terribly awkward whenever Ron, or Harry, or any male, really, was in her presence without a shirt. But now, she was married and in new heights of maturity. Also, she was armored in another cottony fortress that withstood all of Draco's persistent tugging.

"Night, Mione."

"Night, Draco."

His hand wrapped around her waist, and the other gentle rested on the curve of her stomach. It slowly moved upwards as he dozed off. It was that sensuous action that forced Hermione to face another problem.

She did not remember losing her virginity.

xoxox

**Why wilt thou, soul, that I shall do?**

**I may not unkindly thee appeal,**

_**Quia amore langueo.**_

**Unknown**


	3. Wasn't he always an ass?

**Oli: **Heya, I luur-huurve my summer vacation. I dread going back to college…and very funny, Oli, thinking I would up and kill everybody for any old reason. Whatever made you think that…(tries to look innocent, and fails miserably). And who, I can absolutely promise that he, nor Hermione, is going to die horribly. They're going to die wonderfully. Just kidding! Just some morbid humor from Queen of Character killing. Never fear, neither is going to die. I promise. And I'm very flattered that you say that it's nice to follow my stories, and I hope to have my other Night World story out before school recommences. Wow, I've divulged a great deal in just one response. That's enough for this chapter! Please read and review!

**Purple Potatoes: **Very cool name, by the way. I'm very glad you find it that lovable, and I hoping, hoping, hoping with crossed fingers that, although this chapter is a teensy bit different, you'll still like the direction the story's going. Thanks for the review!

**Edhelwen: **Hilo new reviewer! I hope I didn't you waiting for too long. I truly appreciate the time you've taken to review, and I hope this chapter's good enough for a second:0)

**Dastardly Snail**: Hello again! The earmuffs thing, after some research and help, I've figured out is from book one, conversation between Dumbledore and professor. Yes, I suppose it is a bad thing not to remember that important event, but in some cases, it's a good thing too. Did that make sense? Doesn't matter, if you don't have to make sense then I don't have to make sense either. :0) Please read and review!

The Painted Past

Chapter 3

**I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you,**

**Yet thought that a day's separation was long:**

xoxox

Hermione, with a thrilled laugh, brandished the book to Draco, who stood at the other end of the room. He was attempting to open a stuck window with little success when she called out to him.

"You have the limited edition Gilderoy Lockhart Memoirs? Even I didn't have that, and I was a fan."

Draco's eyes widened at the sight of the book, and he turned a bright red. "Er… that's mother's."

"You have his whole collection. Plus the journals he left at Hogwarts!"

"Yes…mother asked me to…ah…retrieve them. Never mind them, I'm busy!"

Hermione giggled at his apparent embarrassment, and recommenced her organisation. Many of the books had been strewn along the floor, and even the chairs and small tables had toppled over. It appeared that the house elves were definitely not happy to be liberated.

The young witch was particularly fascinated by the massive fireplace, ornate and macabre as it was. Naturally, it appeared that the marble snakes and dark angels were aiming to destroy the bricks themselves. She stepped closer to inspect the damage there when her foot nudged an open book on the floor. A book unread was the eighth deadly sin to Hermione, and so, understandably she bent to pick it up.

"Oh!" She nearly jumped up and down with excitement. "You have The Princess Bride."

"Now _that_," Draco grunted as he finally opened the stubborn window, "was really mother's novel."

"And Lockhart's weren't."

"Shut up. He was talented enough in memory charms, one must admit that," he smiled. "Do you like it?"

"Of course! You've never read it?"

He shrugged, and began to right the fallen furniture. "It's not exactly a manly title."

"Oh but it's full of manly things," she explained and settled on the sofa. Draco watched with growing annoyance as she simply turned page after page, drinking in every word.

"You're not going to help?"

Her answer only deepened his frown. "I will….soon…poor Buttercup…oh, evil…soon…" For some odd reason, Hermione felt a strong urge to read the book. Well, perhaps it was not an odd reason; she was, after all, a self proclaimed book worm.

"You're not helping," he whined after he had finished rearranging the room. "You should too, considering you made this mess."

"I made this mess?"

Draco paused, and searched for an answer. He had just been talking, not expecting her to actually listen. "I meant, it was your idea to free them."

She sighed and set aside the book. "I don't know why you mumble like that. You're practically finished."

"No thanks to you."

Hermione smiled, and picked a path through the scattered literature to stand before him. Draco observed her with mounting suspicion, but did nothing as she stood on her tip toes to wound her arms around his neck.

"Draco?"

"Hmm?"

Her fingers toyed with the ends of his hair, and he quickly figured out this was ruse to get something she wanted. Hermione licked her lips, not in a sensual manner, but to prepare her request. Then he realised that he didn't care if she asked for the moon on a biscuit, as long as she continued to touch him this way.

"Can we go to Diagon Alley?"

Funny, her question didn't sound like the question Draco wanted her to ask. And he could not misinterpret "Diagon Alley" as "Our bedroom," no matter how hard he tried.

"Pardon?"

"My wand," she said firmly, and painfully pinched his neck. "I could help around this enormous place if I had my wand replaced."

"But I have my wand."

"Which is all right for you. But, as you said, I'm full of tricks. And I can't perform them without my wand."

Draco frowned darkly, and, in lieu of answering, turned to position the battle field of a neglected chess board on the coffee table. "We'll play for it," he said after the last pawn was stood ready for combat. Hermione sat opposite him, though not for a friendly game of wizard's chess.

"Play for it?" she repeated, annoyance quickly turning indignation. "Play for my right to go wherever I please? Play for your permission as grand Lord Draco Malfoy to finish the simple errand of replacing a wand? Play for—"

"A," Draco quickly interrupted in a no nonsense tone, "you do have rights, as do I of protecting you. Two, grand as I am, the aftermath of the war makes nothing a 'simple errand.' And C, you draw an inordinate amount of attention when you walk about."

"I'll go by myself!" she declared, and moved to initiate the all too dramatic whirl on heel, hair toss, and door slam exit, standard for irate wives everywhere. Draco, however, grabbed her hand and pulled her none too gently back into her seat.

"A," he said, in a manner she was growing to very much despise, "You haven't a broom. Two, this place hasn't been reconnected to the Floo Network yet. And C, you wouldn't make it out the front gate without losing a limb."

Hermione had already lost her patience. "God damn it, Malfoy! It's either A, B, C, or one, two, three! You can't simply switch them out like that! It makes no sense whatsoever! You just can't—who said you could move first?"

Draco chuckled belligerently, and nudged his eager pawn back into starting point. And so the game began.

It was silly, how attached Hermione became to her silver pieces. If he didn't know any better, Draco thought he spied tears in her eyes as her knight fell at the hands of his queen. They were evenly matched, and he charitably contributed her outrageously stupid move—her rook in plain sight of his knight—due to her recent trauma.

She saw her mistake and tried, in her own Hermione way, to distract.

Draco would have been very happy if she attempted a round of footsie, or whispered sensual everythings across the checkered battlefield. But, much to his dismay, none of that occurred. His sweet wife instigated a conversation on all her favourite subjects.

"Do you suppose they'll change the curriculum for Defense against the Dark Arts, considering all that's happened?"

He only shrugged and ordered the assassination of her vital soldiers. Her mistake was castling, thus leaving her most protective stronghold.

"The view outside your window sort of reminds me of the Astronomy Tower," she tried again desperately. "Did you see Orion's Belt last night?"

His king issued death to her last irritating pawn.

"Tell me, are you going to completely demolish the garden, or transfigure it into something tamer? I know some lovely spells—oh! My queen. Goodbye Queen Gwinevere."

Draco laughed amusedly. "You managed to name her?"

"Something to put on her tombstone," Hermione replied sadly.

Then something started to bother Draco. He rarely felt it, but he recognised the niggling, itchy flurry in his mind. Damn. His conscience decided to intervene.

She looked terribly sad, and her side of the board was blanketed with shattered pieces of her broken army. It was only one little excursion, after all, his mind said. _And Hermione would be terribly depressed…_

With an irked sigh, Draco toppled over his own king, though her last piece, the lonely knight, was still being pursued by his determined queen.

"What?" Hermione asked in confusion. "I don't need your pity surrender, Draco."

"Yes you do. Besides, it was very clear that King Draco would kick the bucket any minute."

"Suicide?" she asked mockingly, though secretly joyful he had made the sacrifice.

Draco nodded wisely. "What, with his queen traipsing after every enemy soldier, it's no wonder he grew lonely and died."

Hermione laughed and leaned over to kiss him briefly, an action that surprised them both.

"You have too much honour, grand Lord Malfoy." Draco smiled and bade her to rise for supper.

"Remember that when I'm pulverizing every wizard who stares at you in Diagon Alley."

"And why would they do that?"

Draco stared at, and said that, surely, she wasn't that thickheaded. Hermione elbowed him.

"Because you are beautiful, my oblivious bride. But don't fret, because it will be a while before we can manage an appointment."

"An appointment? For Ollivander's?"

"Silly witch. You're not the only one who's lost or broken their wand. Six months after the War, and he's still bombarded with orders."

"That's terrible."

Draco smiled and pulled her close. "Not for me. The waiting period simply means that I have more time with your beauty all to myself."

He had been hoping, a tad too optimistically, that his honour and flowery compliments would have earned him more than a "Night Draco." And, meeting his expectation, they varied from the usual routine of settling into bed.

She did not even grace him with a look. Draco watched with a pout as Hermione—now ninety nine percent cotton night gown, one percent book worm—distractedly walked into their chambers and slid next to him. And then she turned the next page of _The Princess Bride_.

Having been an indulged child, Draco fondly remembered the days when his parents fetched him whatever his selfish heart desired. Of course, recent events forced him out of that childish phase, and Draco knew he should search for his innermost patience when it came to injured Hermione.

Funny thing happened, however, when he searched within himself. There sat his inner child: spoiled, selfish, nose-so-high-in-the-air-birds-might-start-nesting-within Draco the Spoiled Brat. And Draco S.B. wanted a kiss.

His first movement towards her resulted a resounding smack on his forehead. The second attempt left him pushed off the bed.

"Honestly, Draco, I am trying to read!" Hermione exclaimed. From his view on the cold floor, Draco saw that his dear little wife believed literature a feasible reason to ignore more enjoyable nocturnal activities. So, he broke the lamp, and rendered her blind in the darkness. She calmly threw pieces of shattered glass at him until he agreed to repair it.

"Hermione!" he sulked as he jumped on the bed in hopes of breaking her concentration. Her swift tug on the sheets landed him on the floor once again, and Draco bolted to his feet instantly. "I've been very bored these past few nights."

"Go get a book," she suggested placidly, turning another page.

"It would be a sad indication of your charms if I were to find relief in a book," he pointed out childishly.

"You're revolting," Hermione declared.

"As I recall, you were the one who suggested I molested the texts. Don't blame me."

Finally to her wit's end, Hermione closed the novel, and patted the empty space beside her. "Fine, you egotistical bastard. Come here and we'll talk."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "All my efforts and all I get is a talk?"

Hermione shook her head, and wondered if the rest of the marriage would be akin to baby sitting. "Draco, I promise it will be…" She trailed off, not quite knowing what adjective to employ.

"Sexually stimulating," he suggested brightly as he bounded closer.

"Enlightening. Do try and clear out all pervy thoughts for the night."

"An impossible task for any male. But all right, what will we talk about?" Draco snuggled beside her, and kissed her cloth covered shoulder.

"The past; the recent past, to be more exact."

"Er…do you mean the garden? Oh Merlin, Hermione! Have you already forgotten?" He seized her shoulders in a fit of comical panic. "We went to the garden today!" Draco shouted directly before her. "And the stupid tree hit me!"

"Of course I remember!" Hermione yelled back and pushed his hands away. Draco, relieved, released her shoulders and sighed happily. She frowned and said, "And being amnesiac does _not_ mean being deaf. You needn't yell."

"Sorry." Draco was sheepish and kissed her cheek in apology. What ruined his innocent apology was that his hand was pinching her lower cheeks, and Hermione pushed him away.

"Just talk about memories, please."

"Memories?"

"You know. Dates. Dinners. Romantic evenings. Those sort of things."

"Oh. Those things. But…there are a million. You want me to recount them all?"

"As much as you can," Hermione prompted, looking very much like a student prepared for a trying lesson.

Draco saw her determined face, and feigned a yawn. "I'd love to, really, Mione, but I'm suddenly dead tired—"

"You were energetic enough a few minutes ago."

"Well, yeah," Draco shrugged. "That was when I thought we'd do something fun."

In spite of the brevity of their marriage, Draco recognised the signs of a wife ready to erupt and kill everything in her path. And at the moment, Hermione was practically spurting lava. To save his ears, he quickly told her:

"I first began to like you at the end of sixth year."

"Why then? Why not immediately after our kiss?"

"Because you didn't enjoy it," he explained patiently. Hermione stared at him, caught off guard by his frankness.

"But—I said…"

"Yes you said, but you didn't mean it. Yet it interested me, that you would lie to spare my feelings. Why? I would wonder. Why spare the feelings of your enemy?"

It wasn't a rhetorical question. Hermione stared down at her hands, disliking the piercing nature of his stormy ocean eyes. "I dunno really. I was just…happy, during that time. And I suppose I was too happy to knowingly inflict pain on any one."

"Ah. So Weasley was the reason you pretended to enjoy the kiss? Odd."

"I guess. But it was a good kiss, Draco. You're very skilled." At the genuine compliment, Draco blushed, and Draco S.B. danced around giddily. Both halted the consequent inflation of their egos when Hermione proposed another question.

"Our first date?"

Draco sighed. "Under the stars. Disastrous, though, considering one of them fell near the field we were picnicking in."

"Our second kiss?"

"Bloody awful," he grinned. "Pun intended. You heard a thestral and freaked during the middle of it. And bit my lip."

"Six month anniversary?" Hermione was growing a bit desperate with the lack of happiness in their early romance.

"Oh, I forgot it." He dismissed the detail, as one would shoo away a fly. Hermione burned with both irritation and envy; for he was within the power of remembering and was clearly ungrateful for that ability. "You weren't particularly thrilled with me that week, as I recall."

She doused the growing conflagration within her; an action that caused discomfort and, if it was not her imagination, some indigestion as well. The young witch remembered with an inward smile how eager she was to fly off the handle—or broom stick, as it were—whenever Ron happened to say the wrong words. "Didn't we have any fun times?"

Draco wiggled his eyebrows and pulled her tightly against his body. It was terribly startling, she thought now, to find that somebody so thin was, in fact, undeservedly strong. After all, Ron had earned his build by house chores and Quidditch practice. Draco did not have the right to be so strong, not with his lack of chores and his invention of the new Quidditch move: Sit about and Look Ferrety. Then she remembered that war had the strangest effect on people physically, and that it may have reformed Draco's pitiful muscles for the better.

"I could show you our fun times," he suggested. It took all her efforts to suppress the tingle of pleasure that shot through her body; somehow, she managed.

Hermione sighed, kissed him, and then reached over to switch off the lamp. "Good night Draco." She heard a subdued "damn" before drifting off to sleep.

xoxox

It was coherent, solid, and warm. It wasn't a dream. That night, Hermione visited an exhibit of her memories.

_The first, under the jealous stars that watched the young entwined couple. Beautiful, magical, they were. Serene, lovely, amorous, adorable, peaceful, wise, young, oblivious…an observer might have gone on for days trying to pin the right word for the couple. _But that person would never find it, Hermione thought distantly. Because they were not a couple.

_"It's warm for spring," Draco said carelessly, hugging the girl lightly. Trite as it was, they laid on a red checkered picnic blanket, and finished their strawberry dessert with sloth like contentment. The night sky was laden with diamonds, each one suggestively winking as if encouraging Draco to make a move. But he wouldn't, because having her here, in his arms, was enough for him._

_"Yes," she heard herself say softly. "But I don't mind."_

_"Me neither."_

_Playfully, she grabbed a tiny strawberry and aimed at his face. It hit him squarely on his forehead, and left him slightly sticky and dazed. In tranquil retaliation, he conjured an ice cube and dropped it down her shirt. Once she had squealed and it had melted, the girl spoke again._

_"No fair. I haven't my wand."_

_Draco shrugged and kissed her hair. _Hermione frowned at the comment, and fully grimaced when she saw the wedding bands on their fingers.

_They looked at the starry night, and both Hermione's frowned._

_"The stars are wrong."_

"The stars are wrong," she mumbled near Draco's ear.

"What was that?" Draco asked sleepily. Hermione shook her head, not bothering to open her eyes. Instead she snuggled deeper into her husband's open arms, and sailed drowsily back into the past.

_"It's a lovely bird," Hermione said as she stroked its cream feathers. Draco murmured his agreement, his eyes fastened on the letter it had just delivered._

_She left the study, for the owl had shown decidedly violent tendencies to her husband. Strange how Hermione had only just met it, yet the animal appeared to trust her rather than her husband._

_"Damn it!" She heard the dark exclamation, and propped the owl on a nearby pedestal to rush back in. The moment she stepped back into the room however, Draco had crumpled the parchment and threw it into the fire._

_"What is it? What's the matter?"_

_Draco glanced at her briefly as he pulled out parchment from his desk. "Nothing." She would not accept that and he knew it. "Just…some Aurors were found. Originally on the missing persons list."_

_"So? That's good, isn't it?"_

_Draco smiled bitterly as he sharpened his quill and opened a bottle of ink. "You would think so. But…they've found their bodies." Her mistake had been leaving the door open. It gave the lovely owl a chance to swoop in, and lunge at him._

Her hands shot out to ward off the attack, and she was awakened by, "Shit! I fink you broke my nose."

Grumpily, Hermione sat up and looked around slowly. Her mind sleepily checked the rightness of everything; untouched scary candy bowl, wiggling scary wardrobe, injured scary husband… Injured scary husband?

Draco clutched at his nose as he glared at her. He sat up as well, and cautiously checked his fingers for blood.

"Bloody hell, Hermione, must you be so constantly violent?"

"Sorry," she muttered sheepishly, and kissed his injured nose in apology. Draco found that unsatisfactory, however, and pulled her into a deeper kiss before nodding off to sleep. Annoyed that her kisses were found so boring, Hermione pulled him until he was once again flat on his back, and settled beside him. A feather of a thought tickled at the back her mind, bringing with it the wonder that she would throw herself into danger—albeit a measly little bird—to defend one Draco Malfoy.

_"Has she spoken up yet?"she heard Ginny ask. The question had been spoken timidly, yet seemed to resound in Hermione's aching head with painful power. She stared up at the blurry, red hair image, unable to discern specific features. A shockingly blonde head entered her vision._

_"If she had I would have told you," Hermione then heard Draco snap. A wet towel patted her forehead, her body ached under a sea of blankets._

_"Don't you snarl at me,"Ginny retorted. If not for her current pain, she would have caught the discomfort in her friend's voice. But her body did hurt tremendously, and she could do no more than blink. "You're the one who started this mess."_

_"Shut it, Weasel, or you're gone with that evil cat."_

Two loud rumbles led her out of slumber, and Hermione stared at her tummy before looking at Draco's abs. She realised with a giggle that even their stomachs were in synchronization. Apparently, they were not completely fulfilled with the latest trend of soup and bread. She made a note to repair the menu in the morning. His stomach rumbled again, and her own answered in response just before she drifted off again.

_With a blush that heated her entire body, Hermione peeked at her husband again, and then stared at a corner of the room. Draco laughed deeply before coaxing her into his arms, no easy task considering their current lack of clothes._

_"Draco," she scolded, blush reaching undiscovered shades of red as her naked body molded against his beneath the smooth sheets. He kissed the crook of her neck, as his arm snaked around her waist. "Draco, we need to talk."_

_"We can talk later," he murmured persuasively and kneaded the small of her back. She gave a pleased sigh in response, and allowed him to kiss her lips. Hermione pulled away just as his tongue stroked hers, and struggled to catch her breath._

_"Draco," she sighed, weaving her fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation until her hands roughly gripped his jaw. "We have to talk," Hermione said again, firmly._

_"What? Didn't you enjoy it?"_

_"Yes," she said abrasively. "But it also _hurt_. It wasn't supposed to hurt, Draco. Not if you were telling the truth."_

"Damn it!" Draco swore softly. Hermione opened one eye, and saw nothing. A few seconds later, loud clangs and wails wafted up from below. "Fucking ghosts."

"What is it?" she yawned.

"Nothing. Go back to sleep, dear. I'll go take care of it."

Under normal circumstances, the curiosity would have overcome her to investigate. But there was no green eyed trouble nor red haired mischief to encourage her. As promised, her husband returned and lulled her back into sleep.

_"You make me happy."_

_Hermione only smiled, and continued to study battle plans in the charred and blackened halls of Hogwarts. Literally, she sat on the cold stone floor of the hall way as Draco stood before her nervously. On her right side was a book, and on the other side was a piece of the swamp. A true testament, it was, of the late Weasley twins' magical abilities._

_"Truly, Hermione," he continued, and sat in front of her. "My stomach does insane flip flops whenever you look at me, and my mind turns to crap. I become as clumsy as Longbottom whenever you're around, and I've experienced at least five heart attacks in the last three conversations we've had."_

_"You should see Pomfrey," she murmured innocently, and turned the next page. Draco laid a gentle hand on the book, and pulled it away._

_"That's the thing, though, Hermione. As awful as all of that feels, I think I enjoy it. Despite the hell you put my body through, you make me happy" Draco bit his lip nervously, and summoned up the courage from within. "I'd happily go through hell for you every day, if you wanted. I'd do anything you wished…within boundaries of reason, of course."_

_"Draco, you shouldn't—"_

_"I love you," he interrupted softly, eyes averted from embarrassment. "I don't know how I got myself into this situation, but I don't like it. Makes me nervous, it does. The only solution that I see is…for you to love me back."_

_Hermione blushed, but frowned a bit in distress. "Draco—I'm engaged."_

_He stiffened, and glanced at her hand. The small, dainty digits were bare of any ornaments._

_"He never gave you a ring?"_

_She shook her head. "But he did ask. And I said yes."_

_Draco was obviously crestfallen. He stood, and said sullenly, "He's dead, Hermione."_

_At once, her gentle expression vanished, and she stood to meet his gaze easily. Well, as easily as their difference of heights would allow. "They never found the body," she pointed out defiantly. Draco gazed down at her with a mixture of love and pity. Hermione nearly hated him for it._

_"All right, Hermione, if that's the way you see it." Draco regained his chilly, suave tone as he stepped away from her. Coldly, he appraised her before turning and walking away. Just as she began to relax, he paused and turned to her. "I'll wait for you Hermione. When you realise that he won't come back."_

_"You'll be waiting forever then. Because he's promised me. And Ron always kept—I mean, keeps his promises."_

_Draco smiled slightly, and shook his head. "So do I. And I promise, I'll wait for you."_

God…oh god. God, and Merlin, and whoever else could help her in this situation. They were just dreams, right? A few true, honest memories, but otherwise, merely nonsense mixed with rubbish wrapped in crap? Because if they weren't just nonsensical figments of her sleeping mind, and were actual, true memories...

"Wake up, sleepyhead. Time for breakfast."

That man would be a dead man.

xoxox

**When we met, I determined again to suspect you—**

**Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong.**

**Lord Byron, To Anne**


	4. The red haired ass

**Hullo lovely reviewers and new readers! Even if you don't review, thanks for taking the time to read this pitiful little ditty...**

**Now, I am aware of the rating I've chosen for this story, and I would like to say I chose that because my story isn't too racy or violent enough for rated R, but I think it is a bit more mature than PG13. So I'll just settle on PG15, because I know that some thirteen year olds might be bewildered by the material in this chapter...**

**Better yet, I'll just say PG 15 for the entire thing, as tweenagers don't really use the best of language, and some preteens are a bit sensitive about that. So that's that; fair warning and all...**

**Dastardly Snail: **I'm glad those tiny additions excited you so much! It's a bit funny, though, that, out of the two, you hope the animal is alive instead of the girl! But I understand, because I love that cat as well. Especially the animal they chose for the movie...so ugly it was cute! Well, since you seem partial to it, I know you'll like this chappie very much.

**Delovely: **Good lord, I love that novel! Though the movie was great too—anybody want a peanut?—brilliant! Any way, I'm glad you enjoyed the last chapter, and I'm sorry to say I'll have to keep you waiting about the other characters! I hope you still like this chapter any way, despite my constant Draco/Hermione only scenes!

**Oli: **Hey. Oh come on girl, I said neither Draco nor Hermione would die a painful death! And you don't believe me? It hurts...my heart! Heehee, just kidding. Lemme put it this way. If I had been a girl scout or a brownie or whatever the hell those little cookie selling girls are called, I would swear on my entire batch of baked goods that neither Draco nor Hermione will die. And yes, domestic violence is necessary for every story, isn't it? Naturally, the other characters will be appearing, but not very soon, as things must be resolved with Draco and Hermione first. The night world story is about the usual; bewildered girl, knowledgeable boy, and a bunch of crazy Daybreakers thrown in the mix. Well, not a bunch. Just a fox shifter...:0) Have fun with your essay! Oh and thanks for your continuous reviews!

**StreetCred: **Hullo, I see we have a Ron Weasley loyalist here:0) I really like your review, and thanks for writing that! Hopefully, I'll see another...hint hint...

**MilleniumMarauder:** Well, I suppose it's very natural to pity any man who's newly married but constantly dissatisfied:0) However, I fully agree with pitying Hermione, poor thing...well, a few more chapters, and I'm sure she'll get happier...(cryptic tone, heehee!)

The Painted Past

Chapter 4

**No she don't, she loves just me!**

**(Poor, poor fool, why can't you see**

xoxox

But surely, most assuredly, if all those dreams were truly memories, then Hermione would not be here today, in his—_their_ home. And if those dreams were entirely accurate, Draco Malfoy would not be so incredibly stupid to stay around and feel her wrath.

Right?

Hermione brushed the memories away like irritating cobwebs, and turned over in the sheets. Draco swept them off her small body to let the cold drag her out of sleep. "Go on, up and about."

"Sod off," she mumbled and buried her face in a pillow. Undeterred, Draco seized his pillow and gently struck her with it until she sat up in surrender. "Damn you," Hermione swore and climbed out of bed. "Damn you and damn mornings."

"With that attitude," he chided as he led her through the halls, "you don't deserve breakfast." Her stomach complained with the prospect of a foodless morning, and she clamped her mouth shut.

As breakfast was conveniently and magically produced, Hermione informed him that she was beginning to remember. Draco was not as pleased as she would have speculated.

"What, exactly?"

Hermione smiled. "Oh...picnics, beds, declarations love. That sort of stuff."

Draco, being male, only heard one particularly interesting word. "Beds? And what were we doing in the bed?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and continued her meal. "You know what it was," she retorted, reluctant to spell it out for him. Malfoy, on the other hand, was utterly delighted with her embarrassment.

"Hermione, dear, were we having _sex_?" Hermione's spoon dropped with a clang on the kitchen counter. Gleefully, he added, "Did we engage in sexual _intercour_—"

"Oh bugger off Draco!" she snapped, cheeks reaching unprecedented hues of crimson. "I'm trying to eat."

Draco, with an undeniably sexy—and evil, Hermione hastened to add—smile on his face, inched closer until he stood directly next to her, mouth nearly touching her ear. "Are you certain you haven't an appetite for...something else?"

Hermione didn't know whether she should laugh, shout, or melt in his arms. She didn't have time to choose when he simply laughed in a light, casual way, and patted her head before settling to his own meal. "You are adorable, Hermione. Hard to believe you're married to me."

She shrugged, and, for some reason, found herself annoyed. "You're not going into your self pitying, I don't deserve you speech again, are you? Because A, I understand, and two, it's rather annoying."

Draco clutched at his heart, feigning a mortal wound. "Mrs. Malfoy, I am shocked."

"But my bluntness?" Try as she might, Hermione could not suppress a cringe that came with her new last name.

"By your wrongness. A, I do not 'self pity,' I self analyse. It's not my fault I have a craptacular life that _deserves_ pity. And two, I deserve you because I've done the deeds of a million Don Quixotes. I merely said that you were adorable because I am suave, cunning, and the master of innuendo. You're...a bit artless."

"Thank you so very much."

"It's okay. Artless is cute."

"I am not artless! I'm artful!"

"Artful, Hermione? Are you using that in the right interpretation?" he asked with a chiding, patronising smile. She did not smile back.

"If you get away with saying 'ruthful,' then I am allowed artful, you smarmy bastard."

Draco sighed and shook his head. "So many nasty words and it's only breakfast. Who knew you'd be such a disappointment?"

"Well, if you were hoping for nasty injuries to match those nasty words, I'd be happy to oblige."

He raised his hands in surrender, and cleared away the plates. "All right, you win round one."

"Don't I always?"

"And how would you know, Remembering-not-a-thing- Lady?"

"Common sense. How the hell could you possibly beat me in a battle of wits?"

Draco smiled secretively. "You'd be surprised." Before she could interrogate him on his baiting comment, he snapped into a brisker mode. "Any way, I have to go. I'm off to London and see if there's an available medi-witch to come and stop by. Or a miracle potion of some sorts. Will you be fine here?"

"In a house that hates mudbloods and a garden that eats everything? Oh, simply peachy."

"Don't be silly. The library's perfectly safe." Draco paused, and warned, "But stay away from any books that are black, bloody, strangely warm, or whispering generally nasty things about death and destruction and all that happy rubbish."

"Because we all know I adore that sort of literature," she agreed acidly. "Honestly, Draco, I'm not a complete idiot."

"Of course not," he agreed smoothly, and kissed her good bye. "Not a complete one." He was out the door and on his broom, which had been waiting like a puppy, before she could realise his insult.

She shook her head and wondered if all their past mornings had been so witty or...normal. And, if their days were so wonderful, why was her mind so hell bent on forgetting them?

Hermione did not want to start the day with such troublesome thoughts, and found her way to the library. There, _The Princess Bride_ was waiting beside a vase of freshly picked and only minorly violent roses. She smiled and, mindful of her fingers, carefully picked up the book to read.

But Buttercup's plight was far from her mind when her eyes reread the romance. It was bizarre. Her heart thumped with guilt whenever she allowed Malfoy's scorching kisses and caresses, but her body buzzed with shame when she remembered Ron. She was sure it was a betrayal, otherwise she would not feel so contrite, but a betrayal to whom?

"As you wish," Captain Roberts said at the bottom of the ravine after Buttercup had pushed him. The comical romance only served to remind her further of a handsome, tall red haired boy. Of how he would always try to please her, no matter how insensible she grew at times.

With a resigned sigh, she shut the novel shut and released the dam of memories. What was the use in fighting what her heart so desperately wanted? Trying to block out Ron Weasley was like trying to block out the world. Impossible and ultimately damaging to one's health.

She remembered when he first began to like her. Not very subtle, but very sweet. The jealousy of Krum was a dead give away, but she still wasn't sure. Until her visit to the Burrow after fifth year.

_The boys were teasing their baby sister, continuing the tradition of elder brothers every where. Problem was, the twins liked to include Hermione in the taunts as well, to "make her feel a part of the family," they claimed. Ron, after saying a particularly nasty word in front of Molly, had been sent to degnome with Percy, who, of course, was spending most of the time voluntarily repenting his atrocious behavior. Charlie, Bill, Fred, and George sat at the table playing Exploding Snap while she and Ginny tidied up the kitchen. In between rounds, one would toss a good natured jeer of Ginny's boyfriend—whoever he was for the week—or Hermione's hair. Ron simply walked in at the wrong moment, and chaos ensued._

"_You know Neville would have to be careful with his hoes," George was chuckling to Hermione. He was referring to Longbottom's gardening technique with that idiotic cactus plant of his, and naturally did not understand when Ron fairly erupted with anger._

_Hermione watched, amazed, when Ron quickly took in the twin's comment, noticed George's gaze at Hermione as he said it, and then lunged at his older brother. It was a mad decision, and Hermione had no idea whatever possessed him to do it. _

_Fred cared little for the motivation. He did not join the fisticuffs immediately, and said while the others looked on in shock, "Do you know that theory of if one twin feels pain, it is somehow channeled to the other?"_

_Ron swung with all his might and managed to jab George's jaw. Fred continued calmly, "Suffice to say I would be terribly hurt to know that Forge could be pounded by that pansy. Hurt, embarrassed, and I would, of course, have to disown him."_

_The boys were on the floor now, and due to some wild wrestling of George, Ron's foot flew in the air and assaulted the side of Fred's head. "Ow," he exclaimed, irked, before diving into the tussle._

_Amidst Hermione and Ginny's pleas to stop, Charlie and Bill were placing bets with Harry, who had just come down from a shower. Hermione raised her voice over the fracas to beg Harry to stop it, considering it was two against one and Ron still hadn't much muscle._

"_Not much muscle?" Ron repeated indignantly in a wheezy voice. One twin had him in a head lock, and Ron had the other in his own half nelson. "Here I am, defending your honour, and you insult my physique!"_

_Fred—or George, Hermione couldn't tell—broke Ron's grip and landed a nasty punch on the younger boy's stomach. In reaction to the pain, Ron's foot shot out and kicked Fred—or George—in the shins._

"_I reckon there's not much to insult," Bill cracked before he could help himself. Hermione marched over and lectured the elder Weasleys, something she would have never have tried if not for the fear of Ron's well being. _

"_Of all the days for your parents to go out with friends, and to trust you two with the responsibility of all of us—"_

"_Oddly enough, your remind me of mother," Charlie said off handedly, and lifted his feet as the three rolled under the table like a large, violent tumbleweed. "And yet you still look particularly fetching in that apron." The compliment was the highlight of Hermione's day but the downfall of Charlie's. Before Hermione could form a bashful reply, Ron had grabbed Charlie's foot and another Weasley disappeared beneath the table_

_Now three against one, and it wasn't looking pleasant.._

"_Anybody else thinking of that movie, Jaws?" Harry grinned. "Da-dum...da-dum..."_

"_Harry! Bill!" Ginny yelled, scandalized. "Will one of you please show some manliness and pry them apart?"_

_Not to be accused of unsatisfactory amounts of "manliness," Harry braced himself to be the enforcer of good, when something out of the storm of red hair, fists, and feet reached out and hit his mouth._

"_Bloody hell!" he swore loudly, stepping back. Most of the tidy kitchen was in complete disarray now, and Harry glared at the wrestling forms at the ground, unsure as to who was the culprit. He licked his cut upper lip with a frown. "The one day I manage to shave without nicking myself, and one of you wankers goes and hits me!"_

_Ron miraculously wrenched himself out of the brawl and stood beside his best friend. After careful examination, Ron told Harry, "You'll live," before shoving the bewildered black haired boy into the on going violence._

_Bill found this all terribly entertaining. "Of course he'll live!" No one was listening, but that did not stop his mirth. "He's the boy who lived! If he was done in by mere punch, he doesn't deserve the title—"_

"_RONALD WEASLEY!" Hermione roared at the top of her lungs. "WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO THAT FOR?" _

_She looked so furious and so imperious that Bill clearly cringed before recovering. He spoke, since, apparently, Ron was a bit too preoccupied to answer. "Aw, Hermione. It's just how we show our love to each other." _

_Ginny, somewhat jaded to the barbaric form of male bonding, commented, "Then my brothers must love each other to extremes."_

_Charlie, in the confusion, found himself with a leg in his hands and did not hesitate to bend it at an unnatural angle. Fred let out a yelp of pain and Charlie apologised profusely, saying he thought it was Ron's. But the apology did not persuade Fred from twisting an arm, which he thought belonged to his older brother. Instead, he caused Harry to swear so creatively Bill grabbed a piece of parchment to write it down._

_Hermione, realising that the Burrow was full of blood thirsty, crazed males—her theory proven when Bill, for the hell of it, threw himself in the disaster—dashed upstairs for her wand. It proved to be a futile effort, for when she returned, all six boys were perfectly still. Percy, sweaty and grimy from the garden work, put away his wand in an irritated manner._

_She approached the tangle of brothers and best friend. It was rather like a detailed sculpture, and Hermione reckoned she would have called it, "Red and Black Stupidity," were she the artist. _

"_What's happened to them?"_

"_Immobilus," Ginny answered. "It can't be comfortable, in those positions."_

"_I haven't any complaints," Bill chirped from the floor, and Hermione let out a squawk of embarrassment. She had been standing dangerously close over the man, and was wearing a summer dress. Bill winked. She wasn't sure, but she thought she heard a threat float up from Ron's vicinity._

"_Hermione," Percy said, "as a prefect, I would expect more control over childish antics. I cannot believe that you would allow this to continue—"_

"_Shove it Percy," she said through clenched teeth. Although immobilized, the Weasleys on the floor grinned widely at her tone. "It's just how these boys show how much they love each other."_

"_I've never engaged in such asinine activities," Percy huffed indignantly._

"_Do you suppose there's a reason?" asked Ginny innocently, and Percy glowered. Soon, the boys were back to their normal, mobile selves and repairing the furniture._

"_How did this all start?" Percy demanded, washing his hands._

_Fred and George offered a strange and fantastic explanation of skrewts and digging a tunnel to India, and, though Hermione knew it to be galaxies away from the truth, allowed them to finish._

"_And so, we had to cut Ron's hair to save the princess, otherwise all dogs every where would turn to jelly," George was wrapping up nicely to the bewildered former Head Boy._

"_Strawberry jelly, to be exact," Fred clarified seriously. Bill and Charlie laughed and did not bother to correct the twins' far fetched explanation. _

"_You two are being ridiculous," Percy said with narrowed eyes._

"_That's not what the princess said," Fred contradicted solemnly._

"_Most grateful, she was," George concurred with the same sobriety. It was Ron who finally set the record straight._

"_George insulted Hermione," he said darkly, and wiped absently at his bloody nose. Hermione fetched him a cold towel and sat him at the table before registering his words._

"_Did he?" she asked, confused. "When?" Then she fetched him some ice for his black eye while Ron's face screwed up with bafflement._

"_Yes," George piped up, "I'd like to know too."_

"_When I came in! When you said something about hoes and Longbottom."_

_Percy shook his head, "Ron, watch your mouth."_

"_George said it!"_

_Fred laughed delightedly. "We were actually talking about garden tools, my mo-Ron. You know...shovels, rakes, hoes."_

_Ron then blushed a bright shade of pink that clashed horribly with the purple of his eye. Fred, in a subdued voice because of the presence of ladies, muttered an undoubtedly lewd comment. The boys, even Percy, laughed a little while. Hermione tended to Ron's scratches, perplexed. She had managed to hear it, but was unable to see the humour._

"_What? I don't get it."_

"_Aw," George said, and patted Hermione's head, "aren't you cute? Hold on to this one, Ronniekins." The Golden Trio was very much confused by that line, but the twin took no notice. "I'm very much tempted to corrupt her." She had a very hard time to magic away Ron's bruises, especially when he indicated he wanted a second bout with George._

_Hermione paused to repair Harry's spectacles, and, in lieu of a thanks, he explained Fred's sullying words. _

"_He said that it was very common for Ron to think with such stupidity, as most of the blood that ought to go to his brain goes straight to his head whenever you're around."_

"_But that doesn't make sense," she whispered back, in a quiet tone as Ron was very near and embarrassed as it was. "Because his brain is _in_ his head..." Harry's meaningful glance suggested that Hermione think on a baser level. Two bright red spots appeared on her cheeks._

_Hermione rolled her eyes, ignoring the implications of his words and resolving to wash the twin's mouth out with soap as soon as the opportunity arose. "Honestly. Harry, don't let these boys influence you too much. The last thing we need is another small brained Weasley male."_

"_Oy, I resent that!"_

"_Are you then claiming to be small brained?" Hermione asked Ron pointedly, who blushed again. The others cleared out of the kitchen, though Fred volunteered to stay and "be treated for his injuries." Hermione shooed them away, for Ron was impressively red with anger when Fred showed _where_ he was injured._

"_Sorry," Ron muttered as she bandaged his bleeding knuckles. She laughed and kissed his cheek, rendering him speechless for a few minutes. _

"_I don't mind when one goes to defend my honour. Makes a girl feel special once in a while." Ron rolled his eyes at her falsely simpering tone, and watched her move about the kitchen. _

"_You're always special," he said absentmindedly before pouring himself a cup of pumpkin juice. Hermione froze and pivoted slowly to study him. Ron did not seem to notice the import of his words, and grabbed a handful of biscuits before sitting down again. Determined to forget his embarrassing behaviour, Ron babbled about the biscuits, his mum, and mum's talent with making biscuits. With the slow processing that sometimes afflicts all males, Ron realised his nurse was not speaking._

"_What?" he asked around a mouthful of unchewed food._

"_Were you sincere when you said what you just said?"_

_He paused to grasp the gist of her question. "About what?"_

_His inexplicable sweetness and then unforgivable forgetfulness caused Hermione to let out a growl of frustration before stomping out of the Burrow and into the garden. At her formidable expression, a few gnomes up and evicted themselves out._

_He lacked the common sense to stay inside for his own safety. "Hermione," he said, annoyed. She turned to find him staring down at her, crumbs scattered on his chin and shirt. "Why the blazes are you so difficult sometimes?"_

"_All I asked was if you meant what you said and you can't even remember!"_

"_Well, whatever I said, I must have meant it." Hermione rolled her eyes at his toddler logic, and hated the fact that she found it adorable. _

"_Oh?" She crossed her arms. "And how would you know, if you can't even recall your own words?"  
_"_Because I wouldn't lie to you. You're too good for lies," Ron answered with a shrug, and then they both heard Percy whining about the broken chairs. "Shut up, Percy, and fix it yourself!" he yelled before turning back to slack jawed girl before him._

"_Well? Did I say something bad, or something good?"_

_She answered his question with another question, which Ron hated. "Do you lie to any other girls?"_

"_What?"_

"_Do you lie to other girls"_

"_Course." Another shrug._

"_But you won't lie to me."_

"_Nope." Ron frowned, wondering where she would go with this. "You and my mum."_

"_But your mother's a girl." At that, Ron gave a very twin-like smirk._

"_Don't be silly; no she's not." It appeared that Ron did not want to think of his parents as two separate genders._

_Hermione sighed and decided not to go into that at the moment. She knew she liked Ron, and knew that Ron liked her. It was just a matter of making Ron realise that he liked her._

"_Ronald, is there any particular sentiment that you have for me that renders you unable to lie to me?"_

"_Smaller words!" A voice from above suggested. For one, irrational moment, Hermione thought God was trying to help their romance along. But the almighty sounded strangely like a red haired trouble maker she knew. Then they saw Fred from one upper floor window of the Burrow._

"_He won't understand if you keep talking like that," Bill commented from another window._

"_Speak succinctly," Charlie, nearly hanging over the sill, encouraged the blushing girl, "and from the heart."_

_Fred was rudely shoved aside, and George appeared. "Better yet, just scream 'Shag me,' and be done with it."_

_All advice was thrown aside when Ron, during their unnecessary inputs, picked up four dirt clods and aimed with perfect accuracy._

"_At least Ginny's not commenting—" Hermione began when the little she devil appeared from the highest window._

"_Just wanted to say," the girl called out, the picture of innocence, "that I can't find that book you recommended, Hermione."_

"_Have you checked under Ron's bed? He's always stealing things from me."_

"_I have a witness," Ron called up to his younger sister, "you saw how she instigated this argument, right?"_

"_Are we going to argue?" Hermione asked, caught unawares._

"_Don't we always?" Ron responded._

"_But Ron," Ginny interjected sweetly, "you're always agreeing with Hermione in your dreams."  
_

_Hermione watched a dizzy gnome in the distance, and wished she was with it than with Ron at this moment. Ron blushed to the roots of his hair, and mumbled, "I...erm...don't know what she's talking about. Loony, that one, got all the deformed, left over genes that we brothers managed to reject..."_

_Ginny ignored the insult, and continued with, "I'm not wrong. All you ever say when you sleep is 'Hermione,' and the word 'Yes.' _Repeatedly_." She shut the window just as a dirt clod disintegrated on the panes. Only, it turned out it wasn't one hundred percent soil, for a small pebble managed to crack the glass._

"_Mrs. Weasley is going to kill you if you don't fix that," Hermione said to break the awkwardness._

_Ron sighed dismally. "I'm slowly dying from embarrassment any ways. By my own flesh and blood."_

_Hermione smiled, for she couldn't help but do so. For his low self esteem's sake, she said that she reckoned he'd grow into a giant and beat their arses easily._

"_If I survive mum," Ron laughed. "And my brothers." Hermione smiled again, and began to walk into the cosy little home she had grown the love. Perhaps she wasn't meant to catch it, but she was thoroughly thankful for her good hearing when she did._

"_I hope I survive long enough to take you on our first date."  
_

It took him days afterward to even look her in the eye, Hermione remembered fondly. Her stomach, as it had the habit of doing so these past few days, rudely interrupted her reminiscing to request a meal. She ignored it and curled onto a love seat, ready for a nap. Vaguely, she tried to remember where her cat could have possibly gone.

_It was on the Express when he finally made his first move. And it was _disastrous

_Apparently, still taking the unerringly poisonous advice of his elder brothers, Ron strode into the compartment with an air of false confidence, plopped onto the seats, and asked Hermione carelessly:_

"_Oy, Hermione! Want to go out with me?"_

_She had set Crookshanks on him, and from then on, he remembered not to ask her so thoughtlessly. Harry would randomly guffaw for days afterward when he remembered Ron's expression or noticed a cat-caused scar. She had intended to give him silent treatment of historical records, until she heard Ron's singing during the School Song._

_Instead of the proper words to any old tune, Ron had improvised. "I've forgotten the words," he sang and looked at Hermione with a new light. "Hermione Granger is the prettiest girl and I'm terribly sorry to treat her in the way that Fred stupidly suggested..."_

_She had stood aghast amidst the giggles and sang for him to shut his trap and that he was forgiven. But, being Ron, he didn't._

"_Embarrassed as she is, the beautiful lady must agree to be my date for Hogsmeade or I will never stop singing about her many talents..."_

"_Ron is a stupid, bloody, prat!"_

"..._shame singing in key _isn't_ one of them..."_

_She, to save face, ended up agreeing. She hated the fact that he sported a triumphant look on his handsome face, and that the younger girls would not cease giggling. But she loved that she was the object of his affections._

_  
Dumbledore later said it was the most interesting version chorus he had heard yet._

Draco's arrival was signaled by the heavy footsteps just outside the doors. Silently, he peeked in and smiled when he found his wife curled up in the sun.

"You look like a cat," he purred, and peppered her face with tender kisses. Hermione giggled and pushed him away.

"Speaking of which..."

He rolled his eyes and sat next to her. "I'll try to find your horrible animal."

"Thank you. Did you find anything useful?"

"Other than a lazy wife?" He caught her punch and kissed her knuckles. "No," he answered seriously, "and I've filed your case at St. Mungo's and the Ministry of Magic, but they've labeled this a domestic matter."

"Meaning?"

"Not quite important enough to deal with at the moment."

Hermione bolted upright and crossed her arms. She did not mean to be self important but... "But I'm Hermione Granger!"

"And the world should stop in its rotation whenever you're unhappy," Draco agreed calmly, "but some crazy people don't agree with that opinion."

She blushed and apologised.

"For what?" he asked, with interest. "And what will you to do be forgiven?"

Hermione shook her head with a small smile, and wondered why he hadn't noticed. "I called myself Hermione Granger...you know. That's not my name any more."

"Oh..._oh_, yes, I had forgotten."

"You forgot?"

"Hey, if you get to forget, then so do I!"

"Such a child," she teased, and let Draco's arm around her waist draw her closer.

"If I'm a child, then you are guilty of statutory rape..."

"You're absurd," she laughed. Draco, instead of denying her claim, yawned tiredly. "Are you feeling well?"

He shook his head as if to shake off the fatigue. "Yes. Just a bit...tired."

"Why?"

"I dunno. But I do know a way for you to wake me up..." Draco leaned forward and captured her lips in a tender kiss. Before he could progress it, she pulled away.

"Go take a nap," she suggested breathlessly.

Draco pretended to contemplate. "Hmm...a short, dull little sleep, or mind blowing, earth shaking sex? Oh dear, both are very tempting..."

Hermione pushed him off the love seat. "But keep in mind that you'll be doing them alone." Draco wrinkled his nose and attempted to further his persuasion until Hermione all but shoved him out the doors.

"Right," Draco said cheerfully through the locked doors. Hermione's muffled voice ordered him to go away. "Perhaps I'll just take a nap," he continued as if it were his idea. "I know you'll be sorely disappointed by my absence, but one must learn to control those urges."

Hermione sank into a plush chair, and wondered how on earth she managed to marry such an annoying man. She highly doubted that when she said, "I do," she had known that she had signed on to be a permanent governess of the randiest wizard in England.

Happily, she immersed herself in the past, not caring that her husband slept just down the corridor, and that, no matter how much she wished it, she could not return to those happy times. It should not have felt like a guilty indulgence, yet, somehow, it did.

She remembered his kisses, those sweet little touches on her lips that relied greatly on his own emotion and very little on skill. He was not a planner, like Draco. He did not think about which angle or what pressure would make her gasp or sigh. All Ron Weasley thought about during his kisses was Hermione Granger, and how much he loved her. There was, however, one heated instance during which he muttered something about Quidditch against her lips, and he paid dearly for that mistake.

Their first kiss had been heavenly. Badly timed, Hermione reflected now, but still, heavenly.

"_Hagrid called Professor Trelawny an o'duffer yesterday," Ron whispered during a particularly boring Advanced Divination class. Harry was injured during Quidditch practice and, with Trelawny's permission, Hermione was Ron's partner for the day. She had signed up for the class because of Firanze's new methods of teaching, and was disappointed to learn that he had taken a leave of absence. Still, she persevered in hopes that the centaur would return._

_They conversed in low tones while Trelawny foresaw Parvati's rich and happy future._

"_He did not," she whispered back, annoyed. She was in a bad mood as it was for having been tricked into another lesson with Trelawny, the idiotic wonder, and listening to Ron spout nonsense was something she would have preferred to avoid. "Hagrid would not be so spiteful."_

"_No, he didn't," Ron admitted, "not in those exact words. But you could see it in his eyes."_

"_You're being silly."_

"_As I recall, you're not too fond of her. Why are you contradicting what's true?"_

"_Because, as silly as she is, Harry says that she gets a few true, premonitions, that are helpful in any case. So, even if she is an 'o'duffer,' she's a very perceptive one."_

"_Ronald Weasley is so eager to hear his fortune that he is disrupting the class," Trelawny suddenly said softly. Hermione could not tell whether their professor was faking another display of her psychic of abilities, or was simply being snide. In either case, Ron sunk lower into his seat, ears turning pink._

"_Ronald Weasley...oh, the poor dear," Trelawny began. Hermione rolled her eyes, and already knew Ron would die alone and sad, according to their professor._

"_Lonely...you will ache for companionship and then die..."_

_Ron sat stiffly, temper getting the better of him once again. "Will not."_

_Trelawny halted her swaying, graceful motions and stared at him, slightly affronted. "Will too. As much as you'd like to avoid it, Mr. Weasley, you will die."_

"_No," he stated simply._

"_Ron," Hermione said out of the corner of her mouth, "everybody dies."_

"_I meant, Professor, ma'am," Ron continued in a calmer tone, "that I am not going to die alone."_

"_Young man, I know it's a terrible thing to hear..."_

"_I'll have lots of people around when I die," he said, growing braver by the class's snickers. "And possibly a cat."_

_Hermione sighed, and was suddenly aware that her chair was sliding along the floor. She then noticed Ron's wand pointed in her direction, and that he was pulling her imperceptibly closer._

"_I see no animals in your tragic end."_

"_Not even Pig?"_

"_Goodness, Ronald," Trelawny exclaimed, completely abandoning her misty, soft spoken role. "Do you plan to die on a farm?"_

"_Pig," Ron repeated, growing impatient. Hermione was now directly beside him, but she could not fathom why. "Pig, my owl. I would think you'd know that."_

"_Ron!" Hermione warned, for his insolent tone and his arm around her waist. Nobody, not even Harry, knew about their blossoming relationship just yet. They weren't ashamed, but they were not ready for the "it's about time" smiles quite yet._

"_And I will not die alone," Ron continued. "Surely, I'll have a girl around."_

"_No," their teacher contradicted. "Not one female. I don't even see a girl in your near future, either." Hermione guessed the Trelawny was just being spiteful now. She couldn't blame her. Ron was being a very bad student, after all._

"_Do you mean the future in the next five minutes, or the next few weeks?"_

"_Both," Trelawny pronounced in a dooming sort of way. Hermione shook her head, and wondered if the woman would ever get married with such a gloomy outlook on life. Suddenly, she was too surprised to think. Ron, with his arms and without his wand, had managed to pull her into his seat. The class gasped when Ron cradled the smaller girl in his arms, and planted a soft kiss on her lips._

_Any other girl would have been slightly irate to be used as a means to embarrass and contradict their professor. And she was. Hermione was annoyed through and through...until Ron gently licked her bottom lip, and she sighed. Sweetly, he teased her mouth open, and engaged her in the most thorough and enjoyable kiss._

_It was a tight fit, sharing the small space, and she shifted slightly. Somehow the action encouraged him to hold her tighter, and her arms wound around his neck on their own accord. His rough fingers trailed against her jaw, and... God, who knew he would have such silky ...but they shouldn't be doing this, not here...since when did he start using after shave?..._

_Vaguely, she thought she heard an insect buzzing around, but ignored it. Who cared what was going on, with the world's most talented lips upon hers like this?_

_Suddenly, the bliss was interrupted. Hermione had felt as if she was swimming in heaven during the kiss, but was surprised when her feet were literally off the ground. Then she understood._

_Ron floated in mid air as well, and they both were high above floor. A disappointing amount of distance sat between them. _

"_Mr. Weasley!" Trelawny said in an impressively loud tone. Hermione supposed it was the most teacher-y she had ever seen her. "How dare you abuse Miss Granger in such a manner!"_

"_Watch where you're levitating her, Professor," Ron advised sternly, "I don't want anybody seeing up her robes."_

"_I foresee swift and just punishment," Parvati said sagely, looking at her tea leaves. Hermione fought the urge to tell Patil where, exactly, to put her tea leaves._

_Hermione raised her hand, and felt silly considering her whole body was floating. "Erm...it wasn't exactly abuse." The class hooted with laughter._

_Ron beamed happily. "She's my girl, Professor. And she'll always be in my future."_

_It was spoken so proudly and with such conviction that Hermione hoped Professor Trelawny would show some feminine mercy. After all, nearly all the females in the class room sighed in a dreamy fashion. But, instead, Ron received a week's worth of detention, which conflicted with the Quidditch practice. Harry had been furious as hell until he heard why he had disrupted class._

It really was time to eat, Hermione decided when all the tummy rumbles faded into one, dull ache. She picked herself up and practically skipped to the kitchen, knowing that roaming hands and violating eyes were resting. Or so she thought.

There was warm meal of roasted chicken and freshly baked bread waiting on the kitchen counter. A small note scrawled something about dinner and sleeping again. Belatedly, she realised that remembering Ron had taken longer than she thought, for the sunlight had already retreated from the windows of Malfoy Manor.

It was delicious but lonely supper, and Hermione ate her fill quickly. She'd risk indigestion, she decided, because it was really too creepy a castle to sit in by oneself in the dark. In the master bedroom, she fully expected Draco to be artfully draped on the bed, surrounded by candles, presenting a salacious form of dessert.

None of the above, it turned out. Very much like a sloppy child, he was partially in his pyjama trousers, the waist band barely covering his decency. Draco snored loudly, feet on his pillow, and head and bare torso over the blankets where his legs should have been. When she shut the door, he twitched slightly, but the content smile on his lips stayed firmly in place.

Not exactly thrilled with the idea of sleeping next to his feet all night, Hermione changed into her own night gown before surveying the situation. Reluctantly but with Gryffindor courage, she grabbed his ankles and pulled.

Good thing she had her bum to break her fall. Honestly, the boy was so thin and yet it was terribly impossible to pull him in a different position. She pushed his arm, in hopes of turning him clockwise so that he ended up in the right place. Not one inch. If only she had a wand.

The first half hour of the night was spent trying to move the immovable, and Hermione was panting and sweaty by the time he finally woke up.

Draco opened one eye and sat up eagerly. "Did we just do something fun?"

Hermione sighed and collapsed onto the bed. Draco frowned down at her before complaining that she was occupying his half of the bed. She said a very rude word and, in retaliation, Draco laid down again as if she was a comfortable pillow.

"Ack!" she squealed, and tried to push off his head that was resting on her stomach.

"I wonder why my pillow is screeching," Draco said absently.

"Geroff!"

"And so inelegantly, too."

"Draco!"

"You know, when I imagined you screaming my name from beneath me, I had no idea it would be like this."

"Draco Malfoy, you stop this right now or I'll—" Before she could finish, he sat up and tossed her roughly on her side of the bed.

"Nag like an unsatisfied housewife?" he finished and laid beside her. "Why are you so tired?"

"You're very stubborn," she sighed by means of explanation. Draco accepted it with a shrug and laid down properly.

"Did you miss me?" he asked arrogantly.

"No," she mumbled, still a bit grumpy from his immaturity.

"Not even a little?"

"Not even for a second."

"You're a horrible wife," he declared laughingly. "You don't cook, you don't clean, and the most you'll allow me at night is a kiss."

"Ah, I see. Divorce is the only option then."

Draco frowned. "No, I'll give you another chance. Be sure to make the most of it."

"Thank you, I'm very grateful."

"May I get my kiss now? Better yet, I'll take this week and next week's kisses in advance."

"Or, perhaps, you'll be a good husband and let me rest."

"Didn't you sleep all day?"

"No."

"Well then, what were you doing?"

She bit her lip, realising she had landed herself in a tricky predicament. "I was..." Hermione was suddenly inspired, and she finished triumphantly, "reading!"

"All right, all right, no need to shout." Draco rolled his eyes, oblivious to her relief. "Did you finish?"

"What? Oh, the book. No, I didn't."

"And you've been reading all day?" he pointed out absently as he switched off the light. Hermione shifted uncomfortably, wondering what to do.

"You have the unabridged version."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it's very long." Draco let out what seemed to be a very skeptical yawn, and Hermione did not like to continue her lies. Her conscience would not allow it. Besides, she was, as he said, rather artless, and she remembered him to be the master of deceit. There was no doubt in her mind that she would bumble this fib, and decided to distract him by giving him a week's worth of goodnight kisses in advance.

Draco was not one to question a good thing.

xoxox

He slept very late into the next day. The sun had just barely past midday when a pair of jeans came flying onto his head. With a sputter, he sat up and found himself attacked with a monster of clothes.

Or rather, Hermione had thrown a monster of clothes at him. In one of the closets, a small and determined woman was burrowing through mountains of robes and various other articles of clothing. Any rejected material was thrown heedlessly over her shoulder, and onto him.

"It is too early," he moaned sleepily and fell back against the cushions.

"Too early for what?"

"Too early to deal with whatever notion you've gotten. Why can't you have normal projects? Why can't you take up knitting again?"

"And inflict the world with ugly hats? Nonsense. Besides, this isn't a project."

"So you're demolishing my closet for your amusement? I see, it makes perfect sense now."

"No, silly, I'm looking for something. A jumper, to be exact."

"Bloody hell, Hermione. It's like you forget we're wizards at all. I'll zap a fire if you find it that cold."

"No, I'm not cold. It's just—oh well, never mind. I'll find it another time."

Draco tossed and turned, unable to return to his dreams. With squinting eyes, he saw that the sun was farther along in its process than he originally believed, and sat up in the sea of clothes. "What time is it?"

Hermione was occupied with organising the disarrayed clothes, and appeared to be enjoying herself. "I don't know exactly. Twelve thirty, I guess."

"And you let me sleep!"

She shrugged, and began separating by season. "You were very tired last night. Plus, you look deceptively angelic in your sleep."

"Oh." Her casual compliment subdued him into a bout of quietness. "And you weren't tired from our little snog session?" Draco leaned back against the headboard, and adored his wife as she made towers and towers of jumpers, shirts, and robes. Who knew organising could look so sexy?

"Oh, I've amazing stamina, you know," she replied nonchalantly, and sat confusedly with her sleeveless, knit top. Winter material? Yes. Summer appropriate sleeve length? Yes as well.

He couldn't help but laugh as she observed her choices like a perplexed kitten. "Put it in autumn," Draco suggested, amused, and Hermione took his advice. "And, believe me, I know about your stamina."

She paused, and bit her lip. "Does that have sexual connotation, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yes."

"Right." She let out an uneasy breath, and then plowed on in her task. "I'm just going to ignore it. You should eat, by the way."

"Are you worried for me?" he asked.

She paused, and Draco took the opportunity to swish and flick his wand so that all her neat piles were magically hung according to her organisation. Hermione smiled, and shook her head. "Go on and starve then. See if I care."

Draco chuckled and lazily rolled out of bed. Much to his amusement, Hermione averted her eyes at the sight of his bare torso. Because it made her nervous, and because his entire body ached to be near her, Draco walked over and scooped his wife up in his arms.

To her credit, Hermione did not squeal or giggle inanely. She merely folded her hands and stared at him coldly. "Idiocy, Draco. Do you display it often?"

"Only in your presence, love." Hermione squirmed when she realised he was heading for the loo.

"The effects of inbreeding?" she asked casually. He laughed sarcastically, and she tried to jump out of his embrace. His arms held her captive until she reached over and bit his bare shoulder.

"Why, Hermione, I didn't know you were into that sort of thing," said Draco slyly, and dumped her unceremoniously on the cold marble tiles. "Do you remember when you last mentioned that?"

Hermione struggled to her feet, careful that Draco avoided any pleasant views up her modest skirt. "Of course. It was the last time you called me a mudblood."

"About...two weeks before the war started, right?"

"Draco! You're undressing!"

"Well, yes, Hermione. It would save time to do the laundry while wearing it, I guess, but very uncomfortable for bathing."

"Wait until I'm gone, for heaven's sake!"

"But wouldn't it save water if we were to shower together?" Hermione blushed and marched out of the loo, slamming the door loudly. Draco smiled and undressed completely, and noticed Hermione's shadows from beneath the door. "You know, it's very selfish of you to deny me," he called.

"Why?"

"Here I am, thinking of the earth's dwindling fresh water supply, and you ignore the crisis for the sake of your decency. Prudes like you make waste of Mother Nature."

"I'll keep that in mind. Why don't I just go and invite all of my Gryffindor mates and we'll have one giant bathing party?"

Draco clenched his hand in instinctive jealousy, but then controlled it. She was only teasing, and driving him mad. One of her many talents. He felt the liquid temperature and stepped into the waterfall. "Again, I didn't know you were into that sort of thing."

He won and they both knew it. Draco heard her stomp her foot and march away with an involuntary laugh.

She did not retreat into the library, because she had had enough hiding. Instead, she waited on the bed, idly reading the satire novel until Draco reappeared.

"Oh, Draco," she complained, raising the open book so that it obscured her view. "Put some clothes on!"

He laughed, a slow and seductive sound, and Hermione sunk deeper into the cushions. Her husband was something of an exhibitionist, she learned, for Draco walked casually in the room with nothing but a towel around his waist. And it was riding dangerously low.

"Why don't you pick something out for me?" he suggested patiently, leaning against the bed post. She rolled her eyes and then regretted it, as the action allowed her to scan his dripping body.

"What are you, a child?"

"No, your husband. You've always complained that the Malfoy wardrobe is full of the dark, austere, and morbid styles."

"Far be it for me to go and change tradition." Hermione noticed that, when she spoke, her voice was breathless. Damn. His lean, muscled body was having a devastating effect on her lungs.

"God, you're cute," he sighed, dropping his amusement. Before she could move away—impossible, considering she was pushing against the headboard—Draco leaned down and pulled the book away. A drop of water fell from his hair and onto her cheek as he moved his mouth closer. When their lips finally connected, Hermione let out a breath she hadn't known she had been holding, and ran her fingers through his wet hair.

Two damp hands cupped her chin to bring her closer. Hermione felt his teeth tenderly nibble at her lips, and she boldly opened her mouth. Taking the invitation, Draco's tongue darted out and stroked hers. It was at that point that Hermione's mind turned to mush.

A whiny meow resounded in the otherwise silent room. Hermione's eyes snapped open and she pushed her husband away.

"Crookshanks!" she exclaimed joyously and jumped off the bed.

"Damn that cat!" Draco snarled, refastening the slipping towel. It was all well and good that Hermione admire his physique, but to be nude in front of the animal gave Draco the shudders. Hermione held the mangy creature in her arms with a wounded look.

"Don't speak of him like that."

"And why not? If it were up to that damn thing, we'd never procreate at all."

Hermione kissed the contented animal and cooed to it as if it were a baby. "Aw, don't you pay him any attention. He's just jealous."

"Me? Jealous? That thing is the jealous one. It would be threatened by a baby, and wants to stop any fertilization to take place."

"Now you're just being irrational. Honestly, what would Crookshanks know about fertilization?" Hermione carried the fur ball closer to Draco, and struggled to keep hold of it when he attempted to swipe violently at her husband.

"See? It hates me!"

"I'm sure he has good reason," said Hermione protectively. Draco pouted, knowing very well that the look rendered most women irresistible to his charms. Of course, Hermione was not "most women."

"Keep that up and you'll swallow your head," she said smartly instead of sighing dreamily. Draco, at his wit's end, conjured a fish, threw out in the hall way, and promptly slammed the door shut when the cat bounded after it. Before Hermione could react, she found herself intimately pressed against a nearly nude and completely wet Draco Malfoy.

"Now," he purred, lips trailing against her neck, "where were we?" She could feel the heat of his hand through the fabric of her blouse, and the coolness of his finger tips as they dipping into her waist band. Heedless of her pushing hands, Draco held her very close, fusing his body into hers as if burning a brand into her very soul. And Hermione was surprised to learn that she wouldn't have minded very much.

"On the bed," she answered truthfully, mindlessly. Never mind the feral look in his stormy eyes, and never mind the deftness of his fingers as she felt her skirt loosen. All that mattered was the fact that this felt good...singular. She had never felt this sort of passion with anybody else, and surely that meant something. Something that had to be explored.

Without remembering how, Hermione found her sinking into the slippery sheets of the bed, and she felt cold air suddenly slide along her now bare legs. Draco lips teased her, adoring her skin with delicate fire. With barely any pressure from his knowledgeable mouth, Hermione felt her body tremble for him, plead for him. She needed him in a way she didn't understand, but accepted.

Nimble, smooth hands traced smoldering patterns under her blouse, tickling her ribcage, circling her breasts. Some how—surely it wasn't proper Miss Hermione's doing—his towel fell, dropping to the floor. Now every inch of him was exposed to her.

But she wasn't surprised. Hermione felt as if she should have been; that she should have blushed and turned away, or observe him like one would study a newly discovered masterpiece.

Instead Hermione smiled and accepted another kiss, one so forceful and searing that she arched into him by instinct. Draco did not mind her instincts very much, for he growled in a way that she was both frightened and thrilled at the same time.

While her mind obviously did not remember making love to Draco, her body obviously did. And her husband took great pleasures in reminding the former.

xoxox

Somebody was lightly hitting her waist. Without opening her eyes, she hit back.

Now somebody was pinching her nose. Without remorse, she bit the fingers.

Then that somebody—obviously somebody who did not want to keep his digits—tickled her bare back. Hermione reached behind her and twisted the offending hand, and she was sleepily satisfied to hear a yelp.

Something plush assaulted her shoulder. A pillow.

"Hermione Malfoy," an imperious male said, "wake up before I pull an Othello on you."

She sat up with military rigidity, and glared at her husband before snatching the pillow away. Just in case.

"Brute," she scolded, "I was sleeping."

Draco the Brute was frowning at his injured fingers and glanced up. Then he smiled in a pervy sort of way until Hermione realised the cause and pulled the sheets up to cover her chest. "Honestly." It was then that she noticed his embarrassing state of nudity, and promptly turned away. Almost angrily, she slapped away his cold hand that had worked its way on her shoulder.

"Hermione," he coaxed gently. "Don't be cross."

She shouldn't have been. Nor she should have been embarrassed by what had occurred only a few hours ago. But she was. Hermione couldn't explain the hot blush spreading over her body, but she was still terribly embarrassed.

"I'm not cross."

"Then why are you ignoring me?" Draco asked in a cautious voice, his fingers dancing along her spine. Again, by reflex, she reached around and slapped at the presumptuous hand. "And abusing me?" She said nothing. Hermione did not remember her first time, nor did she remember what was proper conversation after one had...well, she simply did not know what was normal behaviour.

"We've done this before you know," Draco reasoned, apparently reading her mind. Hermione frowned, staring at the window, and said nothing. "There's no need to be...awkward."

"I know," she replied after a long silence. "I know, Draco, but..." Hermione sighed tiredly, for she realised that as terrible as it was for her, it must have been just as terrible for her husband. "But, I just wish I could remember everything that happened between us before _this_ happened. I don't even remember our ceremony, or me telling you—" Hermione stopped abruptly, afraid of the effect her next words might have had.

"That you love me?" Showing one of his few talents, Draco had turned his words into chips of ice, and Hermione could feel the coldness in his behaviour as he rose from the bed. "Of course, why would you remember?" he asked icily as he shrugged into his dressing gown. "Such inconsequential words to such an inconsequential boy."

"That's not what I meant," she contradicted instantly, eyes full of remorse. Heedless of her shyness, Hermione turned to face him fully, despite the fact he had yet to tie it closed. "Draco, I know that, when I said them, I must have meant them."

"Are you sure? Are you very certain, Hermione? Because, if they were sincere and heart felt, then I would have guessed that you would have _remembered_ them. You remember telling Weasley you loved him, correct?"

Hermione was unable to deny the claim, but nevertheless persevered. "I'm sorry that I'm not comfortable with you, Draco, truly I am. I just—I must remember—"

"Why?" He had shaken off the chilly tones and now stood before her in red, hot fury. "Why the bloody hell is it so important for you to remember you love me? Can't you just _feel_ it now, the way I feel it now for you? Why can't you just _accept_ it _now_?"

Hermione had sunk deeper into the bed by the time he had finished. She wasn't afraid, exactly, but she had never seen him so angry, nor so close to violence—

"You don't," he realised aloud, eyes wide with the discovery. He took a step back even as she reached for him. "That's why this bothers you. You don't love me, do you?"

There was so much hurt swimming in his grey eyes that Hermione was painfully reminded of a lost little boy, whose every security had been stripped from him. And, with all her being, she did not want to be the one who inflicted any more pain on him.

"Draco," she pleaded softly, rising. He did not respond. With disturbing calmness, he merely shook his head, and continued to evade her touch. "Draco, I know I do, I must, to have married you—"

"Don't." The one syllable, filled with as much angst and pain that one could possibly possess. It was spoken through clenched teeth, his eyes grey slits of hatred as he watched her. "Don't say it just to comfort me. Don't say it because you _pity_ me. I refuse to be tricked again."

There was so much disgust in his voice that Hermione was forced to turn away, rather than suffer the wrath of his expression. She barely heard his steps as he turned away, and jumped, startled, when the door slammed shut.

"I refuse to be tricked again," she repeated softly. What did that mean? But then again, she doubted any body could accurately analyse and dissect Draco Malfoy.

After hours of trying, and reviewing the conversation, Hermione was still miserable. Although she was not sure whether her affection for Draco had reached love, it was definitely more than like. Most of her misery derived from the fact that, somewhere, Draco was at some unknown location being twice as miserable.

She was worried for him, and his state of mind. And, for all her worrying, she was only rewarded with fatigue. Hermione Malfoy welcomed the dark slumber, hoping it would deliver some comfort or, even better, answers.

xoxox

"_I love you."_

"_Really?"_

The voices echoed around the murky cavern with frightening clarity. As if the speakers, one nervous girl and one pleased boy, were very near, all around, and yet no where in sight.

Hermione could see nothing save the swirling pool of grey around her, and could hear nothing save the clear voices and the frantic beating of her heart.

"_Yes, really,"_ was the quick—too quick—reply. _"Why would I say it if I didn't meant it?"_

"_Because you _pity_ me."_

Somebody...a man, was calling her name. Should she answer? What would happen in this strange, foggy world, if one was to disturb the peace?

"Not much," a girl answered wryly.

Was that directed to her?

"Yes."

It was deafening, the thick silences in between the voices. But it was warm, comforting, as if these dense veils sheltered her from the cold unknown. But was it better here, she wondered, here rather than facing the truth?

Hermione did not want to ask any more questions, for she had a feeling that the answers would not please her. But the voices did not stop.

"_Do you really love me...or do you pity me?"_

"_I love you, I love you..."_ Too happily said, too rapidly spoken...false.

Three words. Three simple words, and somehow, with all their brevity, they decided the fate of the young couple.

_Hermione...are you here?_

The fog was clearing now, swirling away as she wandered aimlessly. The pair grew sadder, angrier, and, unfortunately, quieter. Fading from her mind as something in the distance became more pronounced.

_Hermione, please be all right._

This person, whoever it was, had no right to demand her to _be_ anything. She was enough things, Hermione reasoned childishly. She was supposed to be Mrs. Malfoy, she was supposed to be a great potions professor, she was supposed to be loving but not false, she was supposed to be...

"Happy without bits of myself," the girl said now, voice quaking with the palpable panic. "But I can't! I can't! Why don't they understand?"

_Stop reading my thoughts_, Hermione demanded, feeling violated. The voice spoke at the same time, ringing with cool clarity.

"Stop reading my thoughts."

She didn't dare think another word, and yet the voice continued, multiplied, and increased in strength. Hundreds of different speakers, the tones meeting and intersecting like musical chimes.

"It's warm here, I like this temperature—"

"Too dark, much too dark, but I don't like that light—"

"I am hungry, but I need my wand—"

"Where is Harry? Oh, I do hope he's all right—"

"Poor Draco, poor, dear Draco—"

"Crookshanks, some one must feed him—"

They were all hers, all the thoughts that ran through her jumbled mind at a million kilometres a minute. From the very present and prominent:

"Where am I? How do I get out?"

To the ones always at the back of her mind, eating away at her sanity in tiny nibbles:

"Ron is dead, isn't he? I'm not betraying him, am I?"

_NO! _

And abruptly, without warning, without ceremony...

Ron Weasley stood before her, exhausted from his search but exhilarated by his find.

She said nothing, but he understood why she backed away in fear.

"But it's not _my_ Ron...he's different now, I can see it..."

"He wanted to hurt me last time, I remember..."

"Of course, he's dead, the spoon fell. Spoons don't just fall for no reason..."

Still, other thoughts belied the tearful frown on her face. The childish, optimistic portion of her mind piped up, a part she usually ignored.

"Oh! Oh! Oh thank god! Ron's here! He'll help me fix this problem—"

"Where's Harry? Now we can be the Golden Trio again, just as he promised..."

"Don't back away, girl. This man is your other half!"

And he was a man now, that much was certain. The virtual stranger seemed to glow in this dark abyss. He was tall, lean, and exuded an air of unconquerable strength. Scars stood lividly on his angular face, his skin rough with stubble and dirt. Lines sat at the corners of his lips, which used to smile so readily at the sight of her. The man's face was wrong some how, with too many lines and scars for one so young. His broad shoulders slumped—Ron used to hold himself high, so proud...

"He's not my Ron."

_I am, Hermione, I swear it._

"Ron was never smart enough to learn telepathy."

"Oy! I resent that!"

The facets of her mind quaked with laughter, and all the voices involuntarily chuckled at that.

"So silly, just like the twins."

"Just like Ron to say that."

"Any actor can recite lines."

The man stepped closer, and Hermione saw the electric blue eyes light up by the chorus of giggles that surrounded them. Then they dimmed in disappointment when they heard the last, dubious thought. No other man possessed such a striking blue flame in his gaze. No other man except Ron Weasley.

"No, don't," Ron immediately requested when she moved to hug him. More than hug him, really; she wanted to trap him in her arms and never let him go. "I'm not really here."

"What?"

"I'm here in spirit, so to speak, but I'm not physically..." Ron trailed off as his gaze settled on her face, the tired curve of his lips suddenly quirking up. "But that's not important. The important thing is you're okay."

"And...and you are as well?" she hazarded, afraid of disappointment.

"I always knew you were, you know. I always told them you were too smart to die. Probably gave the Grim Reaper a good lecture about the bad habits of skulking about, ending people's lives and the poor bloke gave up out of boredom."

"Ronald Bilius Weasley, I do not lecture people. Least of all Death."

"Oh, so Death is exempt from your hour long scoldings, but I'm not? Well! Bloody great way to treat your fiancé!"

It was tremendously silly to be bantering in a situation as serious as this, but Hermione reflected that it was necessary to keep her tears at bay. He smiled again, one hand reaching for her but pulling back. Her mind suddenly kicked into overdrive with the new information, and each one of her doubts was voiced unavoidably.

"No, no," he assured her, drinking in the lovely sight of her face, "you're not insane."

And then he vanished.

Just like that. No good bye, no warning, no words from the grave. Just a simple disappearance.

"Well, if that doesn't prove I'm insane, I don't know what will," Hermione complained to the vacant spot where he once stood. He reappeared in time to catch the last part of her lament.

"Really, Mione, you're not. Listen, I'll explain everything later, but we haven't much time. Just tell me where you are."

"I don't know," she said hopelessly, absorbing their surroundings. "Hell, for all I can see."

"No, not here. I mean your body...where were you last?"

"At the manor," she supplied uncertainly, suddenly afraid of his commanding tone. Her answer suddenly reminded her of why she went to sleep in the first place... "With my husband!" she realised with mounting horror.

"Your _what_?"

xoxox

**She can love others and still love thee.) **

**Just me, Just me by Shel Silverstein**


	5. Well, maybe neither are quite that assy,...

**General Note: Oh yes, a general note. I'm very fond of these, though I'll try to curb my enthusiasm. Yes, well, I've decided to categorize this Draco and Hermione, as many people seem to vote this way. I'll clarify something, however, just to be fair to my readers. I'm not a true and true Draco fan. As a matter of fact, I think he's a smarmy bastard who should, at the very least, be expelled...or quartered, or something fairly nasty. Before there's an uproar of flame-like reviews, I'll just say I'm speaking of his despicable character, not Tom Felton. After all, Mrs. Rowling had written a truly horrible character, and she said nothing of Felton's attractiveness (ooh, I'm fairly sure there's something unlawful of an almost nineteen year old to say that of a boy his age!). Any ways, before you're all disheartened, I'm not saying that this is a guaranteed Hermione-forever-loyal-to-Ron fic either. The end, unlike my other stories, is not very solid in my mind. I just felt compelled to write a fic, after reading millions like this, that proved that, while still quite devilish, Draco is not wholly evil. There must be _something_ human under all that albino cruelty. Also, I felt compelled to write a fic where Hermione hooked up with Draco after a relationship with Ron that did not portray Ron as an obsessive, horny, overbearing, or unfaithful. It's one thing to change the original story to entertain yourself. It's quite another to change a character so drastically the only thing recognizable is his name.**

**Oops. Sorry. I got on my soap box, didn't I? I like it here. Makes me feel tall... Thanks for reading my stupendously lengthy general note!**

**StreetCred**: Yes, I know! In my early days of fanfic reading, I thought there was nothing worse than well written fanfic about a ship you couldn't stand! Thanks, though, for loyalty! And, no worries, not a single cliffhanger in this one:0)

**Spawn321818**: All right, all right, Hermione and Draco it is...though I do love Ron Weasley very much...Any who, thanks for taking the time to drop a line and I hope this chapter is good enough to motivate another...

**MoonPadfootProngs4eva**: Well, it's the first time I've been called evil...for this story at least:0) Yes, Draco does seem to be drawing fair amounts of sympathy but never fear! He shall return to his normal arrogant self in due time! Thanks for reviewing!

**Dastardly Snail**: Hullo. Yes, everybody seems to really enjoy the twins and their silliness! If it were possible to simply write vignettes concerning those two, I would. I don't blame you; I think I've already said that I like that cat much better than a lot of other characters!

**Instar**: Thanks for the very nice compliments! I feel special (but in the good way, not the short bus way)! Thanks so much for that realistic comment. I have read (and enjoyed, I admit sheepishly) those silly draco/hermione fics where she instantly falls for his charm and crap like that. Also, amnesia fics where Hermione up and accepts everything told her, or Draco as well. It's all very silly, but still enjoyable! However, I couldn't bring myself to cut very quick to the fluff, and forced myself to write emotional developments. Thanks again so much for noticing!

**IcyCrystal**: Hey right back at ya, and I'm very glad you enjoyed chapter one. Also, I hope chapters two through four didn't disappoint ya!

**Oli**: Hello. Thank you so much for saying I portrayed the Weasleys all right. I was very worried about that. Nobody can make the twins as clever as Rowling herself, I think. I admit I was thinking of putting both, but then I would have to put the same story up twice, which I think the gods of Ffnet frown upon. Haha, Oli, you know me too well. Very astute of you, to know that interesting (though, in my opinion, not very horrible, as changes make the world go round, ya know) changes are coming soon. And any way, thanks for the review!

The Painted Past

Chapter 5

**My future will not copy fair my past—**

**I wrote that once; and thinking at my side**

xoxox

His loving gaze suddenly dimmed, the near black orbs burning into her. She backed away again, dodging his hands—were they always so large, so menacing?—and stumbled back into...

The bed. Draco stood beside it, with an irritated but amused expression.

Ron was still dead. It had all been a dream. A tiny part of her mind protested that, for Ron felt so wonderfully real...

"While the idea of coming home to a naked Hermione in bed is very appealing, I wouldn't want you to catch pneumonia."

"Pneumonia?" Her skin, once cold, was now somewhat itchy, and she looked down to see herself haphazardly dressed in a long, knitted jumper that reached her thighs.

"Did you even eat?" he asked, still annoyed, but even more amused when she stared at him with blank confusion.

"Eat?"

"You know, I think I like this game," Draco decided, sitting beside her. "Now, say Draco is the greatest lover on earth."

"Not a very researched fact," Hermione answered dryly, leaving the bed with the blanket wrapped around her waist. "Considering you're my first and only lover."

"And don't go around researching either," Draco warned playfully, and was then forced to wait as she left to shower and change in the loo. When she returned, dressed in jeans and the same ugly jumper, Draco stood waiting apologetically.

"I am sorry for storming out like I did. Forgive?"

"Only if you forgive me for reacting as I did. It was just...overwhelming," she finished nervously, gazing at her bare feet. Draco smilingly accepted and captured her hand. He did not push her for a better explanation, and Hermione felt strangely neglected by his easily forgiving nature. Still she was not going to question her luck and allowed him to drag her to the library.

"I've something that will fix all our problems."

_A divorce,_ her mind hopefully stated, and Hermione ignored it. Ron was not alive, she reasoned emphatically, for it had all been a dream.

"A pensieve," he said, rather redundantly, since they were now standing directly before it.

Hermione tilted her head, staring at the rusty contraption that sat on the desk like a ticking time bomb. "It looks rather...odd."

"It's an antique from the attic. Been in the Malfoy family for years."

"You say that as if it's a good thing."

"Excuse me, but _I've_ been in the Malfoy family for years and I turned out splendidly."

"Except for your warped sense of confidence, I'll have to agree."

Hermione smiled at him, but, instead of responding in like, Draco impatiently gestured to the pensieve. "Go on."

"What, now?" She glanced around and spied moonlight spilling in uninvited. Apparently, she had slept through the entire day, dreaming of a rather threatening Ronald Weasley. Sifting through her memories now could take hours.

"Yes." He drew his pale brows together in bafflement. "I thought this is what you wanted."

"Of course, but now? Draco, you look tired as it is without waiting for me to finish remembering."

"Do I really?" If there was a mirror present, Draco suspected his appearance would prove her right. His head ached, his eyes stung, but he was ready to sleep among the books if she wished to remember. Hermione nodded, and stared at him stubbornly until he sighed. "All right, tomorrow then, first thing. I didn't think it would be so terrible at first, you not remembering, I mean."

Hermione gave a puzzled smiled when he took her hand to lead her to their bed room. Then she gave a small laugh when Draco, half asleep, stumbled on a protruding tile on the way.

"Very funny," he sighed with drowsy amusement. He regarded her with droopy eye lids as she prepared for bed. "Aren't you going to ask why I thought it wouldn't be so terrible?"

Hermione had been ready with a night gown in one hand and a brush in the other. She had already developed a routine, and a lengthy explanation would upset it. Still, she supposed routine was a second priority when it came to husbands.

"I just believed that was your strange way of thinking," she answered, sitting on the bed.

Draco looked faintly offended, but dismissed it as he settled beside her. "I thought, at the beginning, that it was inconvenient for you, but very lucky for me. I've—"Draco faltered, and set his mouth in a grim line. "I've done some things I'm not exactly ashamed of, but I know you didn't like. And, for you to forget...it seemed like a good thing. But I never counted on you forgetting me. I mean, I'm your _husband_. I'm more than your husband, I'm—"

"Draco Malfoy, the most arrogant man on the planet."

"Please. Not the planet. Perhaps the county, but not the planet. You forget Lockhart."

"Yes, but he had reason to be arrogant."

"He was a fraud!" he protested.

"I was referring to his teeth." Draco rolled his eyes. Trust the product of two dentists to forget a man's sins for his remarkable teeth.

"I haven't forgotten everything, you know," said Hermione anxiously, misinterpreting his annoyance as one of hurt. "I remember this room."

He snorted. "You remember this stupid little room but not me?" he teased, and again, she misunderstood his meaning.

"No, I remember this room because of you," she assured him seriously. "And I don't like it when you're not in it."

Draco did not know how to respond. It was the bluntest she had been by far, and for once, her frank words didn't hurt his feelings. She continued in her patented know-it-all way.

"And, I remember waking up and seeing your face, and being happy. I remembering feeling relieved that you, that somebody, was here."

"Glad to be that somebody," he replied without bitterness.

"That's not what I meant," she smiled. "Do you know, if I had waken up married to anybody else, I don't think he would have handled my forgetfulness as well as you did."

Draco beamed like a rewarded little boy. "Hell, we get along now more than we ever did before."

Hermione frowned. "Did we have a violent relationship?"

"I like to call it passionate. Are you sure you're very eager to remember everything?"

Hermione was ready to reply—with an affirmative, she was certain—when there was a startling tap on the window panes. It was not overly loud, but its interruption in the comfortable silence made them both jump. Draco scowled at the grey owl before condescending to open it.

"Animals all over the world are conspiring against my chances of fun."

"Oh? Is that where the conversation was going?" Hermione asked in amusement, and petted the animal on Draco's arm as her husband drew closer.

"In a few minutes," he replied airily as he picked off the attached parchment. With an irritated expression, Draco sighed and then proceeded to unceremoniously toss the bird out the window.

"Draco!"

"It has wings, Hermione. I'm fairly certain they're handy when one is fighting gravity."

"It wasn't very polite," she couldn't help but add. "And what is the note?"

"It's a bill. Really, it must be a quarter till eleven, and the bastard sends a bill."

"A bill for what?" she asked, curiosity sparked, when Draco folded it and placed it in a desk drawer.

"I've had some repairs done. Aren't you going to change?"

"I will. Repairs that you couldn't do with your wand?"

"I'm a wizard, not a genius. And where? Here?" he suggested eagerly. Hermione, successfully distracted, shook her head and left the room to change. When she returned, Hermione found her husband cosily wrapped in dreamy Bedfordshire.

Hermione frowned at his angelic expression after she had crawled onto bed. The frown was worn, not because of his resignation to slumber, but her urge to awake him. They were still talking after all, and she had a few questions she wanted to ask. If she was a good wife, she reasoned internally, she would have placed the priority of her husband's health far above her curiosity.

But she didn't remember being a good wife, and there was no reason to start now.

"Draco."

He grunted, not unlike a grouchy pig.

"Draco, wake up."

Malfoy then gave a hybrid of a pained groan and an irked grunt. She shoved at his shoulder, and Draco rolled his eyes under his lids.

"Unless you are wearing very little—or nothing at all, come to think of it—I am not opening my eyes. Now, are you any where near nakedness?"

"No, Draco, really—"

"And are you planning to be near nakedness soon?" he interrogated in a clipped, business like manner. She fought the urge to smother him with the pillows.

"No, you perv—"

"So good night."

"Draco!"

"I said good night sir," he yawned. Although it was wise to leave a soporific Slytherin and former Death Eater alone, a determined Gryffindor and former member of the Golden trio was apt to abandon wisdom when she wanted a few answers.

Under her persistence conveyed in dulcet tones, Draco surrendered to the stubborn little witch and allowed his eyes to open in grey slits.

"What do you want?" The question might have been taken for rudeness if not for the softness in the words.

"I would like to know, precisely, why you fell in love with me."

Even when only an infinitesimal portion of his eyes showing, Hermione spied them rolling with annoyed exhaustion. "I already answered you before—"

"No, what you described was interest. Curiosity, it was, not love."

"Well, why don't you spend some quality time with the pensieve and record the precise moment my mind turns into goo."

She ignored his lacerating sarcasm—though she expected some patience from her normally loving husband—and snuggled against him. "Did I really turn your mind into goo?"

"You sound absurdly pleased at the idea."

With the donated warmth of her soft body pressed against his, Draco again let his eye lids droop shut, and he wound his arm around her waist out of habit. He was on the verge of slipping back into his dreams when she giggled. Damn all women and their infernal giggling.

"But what did I do?" she pursued. "Did I return after one vacation suddenly changed and you fell madly in love with me?"

"Now you don't sound absurd—you simply are. Really. One drastic change into a sex goddess and I'm supposed to turn into a love sick prat?"

"I don't recall saying 'sex goddess.' Been fantasizing about me, then?"

"You have no idea," he murmured, too tired to hide the truth. "And, more to the point, you would have to transform into some sort of sex goddess to make me fall in love with you instantly like that. Did you really take me for somebody that shallow?"

"Well...I sort of figured that perhaps you'd fall in lust first, and then feel guilty and eventually fall in love with me."

"Evidently, Mrs. Malfoy has put a lot of thought into this. Been fantasizing as well?"

"More like nightmaring, and only recently," she teased. "Well, if I hadn't undergone some ridiculous 'make over,' as they say—"

"Ridiculous and unnecessary. You're beautiful as you are."

"Thank you, but don't interrupt. Any way, if it wasn't that, then what was it? If my development hadn't caught your attention..." She chewed at her lip, and summoned up some wonderful and intriguing explanations for his unlikely affection. "Did you make a bet with somebody to win my heart?"

"Hermione!" he exclaimed, offended enough to open his eyes. "I'd have my wife defend my honour if not for the fact that she's the one who insulted it."

"Please. You were Slytherin, a Malfoy, and a Death Eater in training. The quest of bed warming doesn't seem like something that would trouble your conscience."

"In the impossible world where your theory makes sense, it would not be a quest. It would be something to do before supper." Naturally, she did not find this particularly pleasing, and he added, "If I were ever to engage in such an odd wager, I wouldn't have done it with a girl I respected as much I as I did you."

That pleased her greatly, and her spirits were restored enough to conjure another theory. "I know! One of the teachers—or Dumbledore, no doubt—must have planned a strange experiment, perhaps love potions, forcing us to work together. And, amidst the heated glares and romantic sparks, you fell for my splendid personality."

"Honestly, do you lack control over your mouth, or does this drivel make sense in your damaged mind?" he asked indignantly, for the picture her scenarios presented were not very pleasant for his part. It made him appear as one who was easily swayed, as if one trivial thing—such as a fantastic case of puberty, a lust driven wager, or a nonsensical and undoubtedly illegal experiment—would radically transform his principles and personality.

"Before you say another word," he warned after he voiced his opinion, "I did not change myself just to conform to your idea of a compatible man. Nor did I write poetry, enact great gestures of love, or land myself in duels with any one who spoke ill of you. The only difference between Draco Malfoy and Draco Malfoy-in-love-with-Hermione-Malfoy was the absence of glares and the word 'mudblood.'"

His little speech had a profound effect on her. Or so he thought. After only a few beats of silence, she said confidently, "For one who fought so hard to love me, you're not the most ardent suitor."

"Yes...well...I was subtle." Draco decided that subtle was a much better description than cowardly. "Biding my time."

Hermione laughed at his faltering tone and pitched another idea. "Are you sure you didn't have a secret crush on me all along—since day one—and you were too afraid of your parents' wrath to show it, thus donning the veneer of the hateful, cold ferret so that we would be none the wiser?"

Again, a lapse of silence. "That may be your best idea yet," he finally issued with a smile. "And when I say 'best' I mean 'most far fetched.'"

"Not true?"

"No. I mean, I remember your teeth and your hair on day one. I wasn't about to fall in love with a muggle born who looked like _that_."

"Last one, promise. By some twist of fate, you learned that I was, in fact, not a mudblood. All along, I had been the adopted-by-muggles long lost daughter of a powerful pureblood—possibly Voldemort himself—and the new stature brought new feelings to your black heart."

"I'm not going to dignify that with an answer," he said flatly. "But if I did, I'd say that it was a stupid and ridiculously convenient."

"Well then, how did it come about?"

"It just _did_, Hermione, really. I'm sorry I don't have an amusing story of misunderstandings and hijinks, but we simply spent time together during the war, and so I fell in love with you."

She found it all extremely unsatisfactory, and Draco was motivated, somewhat, to tell some bit of truth. Which was more, she knew instinctively and later on, than he cared to share with anybody his entire life.

"I saw you dancing, once," he murmured, so softly she could barely hear him.

"When?"

"In the past...at school." It didn't answer her question. Surely she had danced in his presence dozens of times, with all the balls and celebrations of Hogwarts.

"And?" she prodded.

"And..." He sighed, with such a dramatic air she nearly hit him. "And I liked the way you carried yourself. And I liked the rhythm of your body...and the melody of your eyes..." Hermione sighed in a hopelessly girlish fashion, and Draco suddenly became aware of his own ridiculous, truthful words. He shifted with annoyance flitting his handsome features, and added, "And I hope that's enough bull shit to meet your damn expectations, because that's all I'm going to say on the matter of falling in love with you. It might have been a dream you know. For all I know, you dance like a gimpy duck."

She punched him lightly. "And even if I were so rhythmically challenged, it doesn't change the fact that you fell in love with me."

"I wouldn't have, though, if I'd known you were still as annoying as you were during our first year."

"But you did," she was happy to contradict. "You did. Underneath all this lovely woman-ness you see now, I'm still the little bushy haired, buck toothed little girl who was always corrected your mistakes in class."

As soon as the words tripped out of her lips, Hermione stiffened. The dream—and she was confident it was a dream—suddenly loomed in her mind, the swirling mass of voices and memories urging her to leave Draco's side. And she complied, slowly at first, but then swiftly sliding out of the sheets and onto the stone cold floor.

"I made no mistakes," Draco stated instantly and untruthfully. "And, are you sure? Under all that woman-ness?" He made movements of studying her critically from head to toe as she walked around to stand on his side, where the candy dish lay. "Perhaps it's that night gown, blocking my view. Better take it off, so I can see that buck toothed, bushy haired girl I missed."

She grabbed a candy and unwrapped it noisily, focusing on the wrapper rather than his good natured smile. "You never liked her."

"True, but taking off your night gown is still a good idea. Always a good idea."

"No," she refused softly, looking at the door that opened to the corridor. Her mind focused on the loo, and the items of clothing she had left in there. Draco studied with some confusion, but decided not to comment when she wrapped her arms around herself, her brown eyes filling to the brim with tears.

"Hermione?"

"I'm cold," she said quietly. It was the most opportune time to add an innuendo, but her slightly perplexed expression made him bite his tongue.

"I could make a fire," he suggested gently.

"No," she murmured distracted as she moved to the door. "Jumper...and he said that..." And Hermione disappeared into the darkness.

In the wait, it was difficult to keep his eyes open now that there was nothing to interest him. He fought the battle with Morpheus just long enough to see her scurry in, with the jumper he had placed on her before now pulled over the night gown. The rough texture of the yarn scratched at his bare skin before he drifted off with a smile, his arm finding its rightful place around her form again.

Hermione could not sleep. She was surprised she hadn't burst into flames for her brazenness. Imagine, sleeping next to a husband while wearing a gift from the greatest love of her life. Hermione reviewed and analysed her actions, the past, the present, and the shadows in the room in a long, tormenting cycle, unable to find solace in sleep.

"You're not sleeping. And your jumper's itchy."

She hadn't known he was awake. And, by the sound of the contentment in his voice, Draco had been asleep for a few hours. Beyond him, in the view of the window, she saw the rosy hues of dawn approaching.

"Take it off," he said now.

"You and your everlasting hope of a strip tease," she said with false amusement. He ignored it.

"No, really, Hermione, it's itchy."

"I love this jumper."

Some odd note in her words, and the strange twist of her lips, told him that it was more than the stupid jumper. That something of great importance waited behind the stone wall of her small conversation, something that could be controlled but possibly released willingly. He hoped, he prayed, that whatever it was, it would be kept imprisoned.

"What do you want for breakfast?" he asked brightly, rolling her so that she laid on top of him, damn jumper and all. "You know I think it's time we hired a cook. Or a cooking house elf. Either way, I want them dirt cheap—"

"Don't you want to know why it's important?" she asked quietly, fingers dancing on his shoulders. Her chocolate gaze rested on them rather than Draco's troubled face.

"No, not really."

"It's my engagement jumper, Draco."

He pursed his lips, and distractedly ran his hands through her hair. She had brushed it, so the curls were not so smooth nor silky, instead frayed, and bushy. He loved it that way. He loved it any way she wore it, and loved any way that she chose to be. Even when she spoke of subjects that speared through him like an Unforgivable.

"Do you want to know how it came to be about?"

"You're going to tell me any way," Draco replied colourlessly.

Hermione laid her head on his bare chest, to hear his heart beat and to hide her smile as she remembered.

xoxox

"_Wake up! Wake up!" Fred—or George, one could never tell in such dim light—yelled as Hermione arrived at the common room. She winced at his volume, but the remnants of sleep kept her from snapping. The twin ran joyously to join the students in front of the fire place. Harry and all of the Weasleys were present. As she grumpily stumbled down the stairs, she wondered if it was such a wonderful thing of Mrs. Weasley to make the twins promise to finish their education._

"_Good morning Hermione," Ginny smiled and Hermione returned the greeting._

"_Happy Christmas," said Harry, who sat atop a mountain of presents. By comparison, Ron, Ginny, and the twins' collections of gifts were mole hills, but Hermione noticed mutual envy on both parts. While some lacked in material possessions, the other lacked the family love so prevalent in the red haired clan._

"_Did George deafen you?" Ron asked, grinning, as she sat beside him on the floor._

"_I thought it was Fred."_

"_Here, Ron, this one's for you," George said eagerly, pointing to one particularly large box. Too enthusiastic to be suspicious, Ron practically lunged for the package and was surprised to land on nothing. Harry, Hermione, and Ginny watched in amazement as the Ron searched for the gift, only to find it slowly but surely crawling away._

"_Damn!" George exclaimed, though with a brilliant smile. "Fred, I thought you said it was sleeping!"_

"_It was! Must have waken up with your hollering—oh, watch out now, there it goes!" The thing had picked up speed by now, and with surprising alacrity for a cube, raced up the steps to the girls dormitories. Ginny, upon spying the unchanged condition of the stairs, surmised aloud that either Ron's "gift" was a female, or an "it." The twins raced wildly after it, and the remaining four heard many oaths that ought not to be uttered on Christmas Day._

_Still, for all their joking, the twins had left many gifts for Ron, and even more for their baby sister, as if compensating for past Christmases that had left them less than satisfied. Ron was ecstatic to find a new book on Quidditch techniques, which pleased Hermione at any rate, for at least the boy read something. And Harry had remarked that Ginny would look great on her new broom, and there ensued a shy silence. Hermione was amused and Ron appeared absurdly pleased with himself, as if he had arranged this romantic beginning._

_The Weasleys, of course, received their jumpers, and none this year bore any letters. Mrs. Weasley had learned her lesson after enduring months of, "How do you know it was me mum? The culprit had an F on his jumper, and my shirt now says G" and "Go ask Forge, he'll straighten things out," and other stupid excuses for pranks such as those._

"_You understand, right Harry?" Ron asked, somewhat anxiously, "why you don't get one? Mum was so busy with helping Dad after the—"_

_Harry dismissed the matter before his best mate could finish. "Of course. And me and Hermione love her tarts." As proof, he opened the tin Mrs. Weasley had sent and happily bit into one. Ron looked slightly relieved, and all four jumped at the sound of Fred landing on the geometric creature at a painful angle. _

"_It's Hermione and I," Hermione couldn't help but say nonchalantly as she opened her own tin box. _

"_So arrogant to speak of herself in third person," Harry teased, and the four laughed. Then, when Ginny and Harry left to see if Hedwig wanted some of treacle tart, Ron reached under a cushion and pulled out another, wrinkled present._

"_Here. I didn't want Harry to see..."_

"_Why not?" she asked curiously, sitting beside him on the sofa as she neatly began to undo the ribbon. "Is it romantic?"_

"_I hope not," he laughed, blue eyes twinkling. "It's from my mum."_

_Hermione was ready to ask why the secrecy was needed when she pried the box open and found one of Mrs. Weasley's trademark, knitted creations. The collar and sleeves were blue, but somewhere in the middle the color jaggedly switched to maroon. And this, indeed, bore large letters. _

_Hermione pulled it out and held it with a little confusion. "It's two colors."_

"_Yeah," Ron replied sheepishly, "mum warned me about that. Some blue ink spilled on the sleeve so she meant to magic the whole thing blue. But then one dragon bit Charlie so she forgot and sent it any way. Do you mind?"_

_Hermione handed it to Ron and then regarded with a critical eye. "I suppose I could fix it myself..." Ron nodded, but his sapphire gaze darkened in disappointment. "But I like it this way."_

"_Good," said Ron, clearly pleased. "I like it. I think it's funny. And passably pretty."_

"_You would. You're a great lump with slovenly tastes in fashion."_

_Ron held the jumper against his chest and looked down with mock seriousness. "What? You don't think it's me?"_

_At that moment, Harry and Ginny made a noisy entry, and smiled at the pair. _

"_Hullo," Harry said with interest. "Is that a dress, Ron?"_

"_Really, Hermione," Ginny giggled, "the things you whip my brother into doing!"_

_Before Ron could deny anything, the twins returned, wiggling box in hand. And, Hermione wasn't sure, but she thought she saw the ribbons shake like fur._

"_Still a few kinks to work out," George explained in between pants._

"_You'll get it next Christmas," Fred nodded, just as tired from the race. Ron, mesmerized by the moving package, forgot to pull down Hermione's present, and the twins took great delight in his embarrassment._

"_Ronniekins! That's just your color!"_

"_Yes," George chuckled, "and it's long enough to hide your knobby knees!"_

"_I do not have knobby knees!" Ron cried defensively, before asking Harry in a quieter voice, "Right?"_

_Harry shook his head, and was distracted by the initials when George voiced his confusion._

"_H W?" Fred read and then looked to Ginny, who shrugged. "Erm...Hron?"_

"_No," Hermione sighed._

"_It's not for me," Ron tried to explain._

"_Is it Harry's then?" Ginny wanted to know._

"_But it's Potter," George stated in a matter-of-fact tone. "Not Wotter...did I just say water?"_

"_That you did," Fred answered with a smile. "But I understand. The W is for Weasley."_

_Ron nodded with a growing blush. _

"_See?" Fred said triumphantly, "Mum is going to adopt the boy who lived! Bad idea, in my opinion."_

"_Mine as well," George piped up, "for it's hard enough to scramble for a scrap of food at the Burrow without adding another mouth to feed."_

"_George!" Ginny said, scandalized by their lack of sensitivity, and Hermione made a mental note to ask her how she could tell which was which._

"_Oh, you know you don't want to adopt the Boy who Lived either," Fred taunted, settling himself on a chair. "After all, if this gets legalized, you two'd be arrested for incest."_

"_Fred!" Harry bit out, turning five different shades of red._

_Ron, forgetting his own embarrassment, asked, "Really? Are you two already dating?"_

"_You're getting distracted, love," Hermione told him, latching her hand onto his. George rolled his eyes, and gave curt nod to Harry._

"_If you're going to be our new brother, you must tease the others when they get all mushy with their girlfriends. It's a rule."_

"_There is no rule," Ron frowned, and hastened to add, "and besides, mum's not adopting him."_

"_Yes," Fred agreed, deep in thought, "I reckon after you were born she didn't want another son; possibly another disappointment, you see."_

"_Oh, like you two lived up to all expectations," said Ginny tartly, and was ignored._

"_But then Ginny came and that was a complete disaster," George lamented and gave his sister a playful shove. Hermione could not tell whether it was done out of teasing or planning, for the younger girl fell directly and conveniently into Harry's arms. Who did not seem to mind at all._

"_Not a complete disaster," Harry said as he set her on her feet. "Not a disaster at all."_

"_And here goes another round of blushing!" Ron declared._

"_So if you're not getting adopted," Fred began slowly, "And the initials are still H and W... Ginny, are you and Harry getting married?"_

"_And Harry, why are you taking our name?" George demanded. "Shouldn't it be the other way around?"_

"_I'm not marrying him!" Ginny exclaimed hotly, and to the speculation of all present, Harry appeared slightly wounded by the words. "At least not that I know of, in my limited knowledge of the future," she amended, and Potter smiled._

"_Well," George began again, and squeezed himself between the annoyed Ron and Hermione on the sofa. "If Ginny's not marrying him," and the twin glanced at Hermione casually before saying, "then I guess Ron is."_

"_Again," Fred said with laughter, "I don't see why Harry would take the Weasley name. If anything, Ron would be the girl in the relationship—"_

"_It's for Hermione!" Ron blurted angrily, bolting to his feet so that he could tower menacingly over his lounging brothers. "The H is for Hermione, you bloody idiots!"_

_His ears, his face, and no doubt his vision, were all very red due to the smarting and embarrassing remarks of his twin brothers. And the pair did not have the decency to apologise, or explain their jest. Fred calmly gave Hermione a once over and turned to George, who said:_

"_No. I don't think that's it."_

"_It can't be for Hermione," Fred continued placidly. "Hermione's last name is Granger."_

"_Or perhaps," George proposed, "it is for Hermione, but that's not what it stands for."_

"_Enlighten us, Forge, if you please."_

"_Gladly, Gred. H, as we all know, stands for humongous. W could represent wig. There, see? Ronnie, there's no reason to get so worked up. The jumper refers to that enormous fern growing on your girlfriend's head."_

"_I knew it couldn't be real," Fred agreed. "All that hair...her skull would cave in under the weight!"_

_If it were any other day, Hermione would have hexed them into the Christmas Yet to Come, or at least caused some physical damage that left lasting effects, leaving it easier for prefects to tell who was who if one had a black eye and the other had a limp. If it were any other day, Ron would have launched an attack on both of them, and ended up more bruised than either. _

_But it was not any other day. And everybody saw that by the way Ron sat in his original seat, and sheepishly handed the jumper to Hermione, over George's lap. And Hermione biting her lip excitedly as she accepted it._

"_It's for Hermione," Ron said quietly, not at all affected by the company any more. In fact, his gaze rested solely on the girl with humongous hair. "If you'll have it."_

"_Oh," said Hermione in little more than a trembling whisper, "of course I will."_

"_Just so you know," George cut in, "he didn't ask mum to make that. I saw her knitting it last summer, before you guys had a tumble. Hopeful woman, she is."_

_They forgot him. They forgot every one in the room, really, not out of rudeness nor forgetfulness, but out of the sheer excitement in the air._

"_And..." Ron began gingerly, "you'll wear it—"_

"_Not in public," Fred chirped._

"_As soon as possible?" Ron finished hopefully and Hermione nodded. He was not very articulate, every one knew, so the company realised now that, whatever Ron had planned to say, it might run late into breakfast. _

"_One day, I suppose...do you think, I mean, that it would be possible..." _

_Hermione recalled his ears, and how brilliantly they burned with the boiling sentiments within him. _

"_What I meant to say is...in the future, at a later date, but not much later..."_

_And how his eyes shone brighter than she had ever seen them, casting the roaring fire into shame._

"_One day—one tremendous, brilliant day—you could...I mean, you'll be able to..."_

_And his lips. Those lips, fumbling now, but held so much power over her she felt she'd die if she didn't kiss him soon._

"_One day," she interrupted evenly, "One beautiful day, I'll wear the initials on this jumper, and truly own them."_

"_Yes," Ron breathed, nervous face splitting into a wide smile. "Yes, it'll be beautiful."_

"_I do hope they're speaking of the day," Ginny commented, showing some Weasley humour, "because that jumper will be eternally ugly."_

"_One day," Hermione sighed, moving closer, "one day, I'll wear this jumper and live by it."_

_Ron's eyes were not tender exactly, but nor did they lack gentleness. He did not gaze at her with fluffy adoration or worshiping amour. Instead he watched, truly watched, with eyes wide open to take in everything about her, and this moment. He hated to blink, for to do so would steal from his vision the most beautiful moment in the world. And he wanted to see it, all of it, with her. _

_For her eyes promised more beautiful moments, and more brilliant days._

"_Getting rather stuffy in here," George gulped as Hermione, pointedly ignoring his presence, leaned over his lap to be closer to his younger brother. Ron leaned in as well, so that the two were mere inches apart directly in front of the bewildered twin's face._

"_One day," he said huskily, so quietly none but Hermione could hear the promising words. George did as well, but, unlike Hermione, he was wishing he could burn off his ears to avoid mushy-ness. "Will you be my wife one day, Hermione Granger?"_

_They did not hear her answer. They saw, of course, that she leaned in for a kiss, and George made retching sounds. And when the kiss deepened, they saw him scramble out from the beneath the pair, and saw the shock on the twins' faces. Ginny was slightly caught off guard as well._

"_I guessed I'm surprised," Ginny told Harry, who had been watching the scene with silent and warm fascination, "for I never thought the youngest brother would be the first to be engaged."_

"_She trapped him," Fred declared mournfully. "With her new hair and her big, brown eyes—now that she's got a figure, she trapped him."_

_Ron, breathlessly, broke free from the kiss and shook his head, the first indication he was aware of anybody in the room. "No," he said wryly, eyes searching Hermione's, "underneath all that woman-ness—"_

"_Not a real word," Hermione laughed._

"_Underneath all that, she's still the little bushy haired, buck toothed little girl who's always corrected my blunders...she's always been the girl I loved."_

"_Damn good line," George praised him. "Can't beat that."_

_Ron sent an imploring look to his twin brothers. "I haven't any money for a ring—"_

"_Oh no you don't," George interrupted. "I don't approve of you two getting married so young."_

"_Nor I," Fred agreed. "And you played right into mother's hands, there, Ron. Really, it's disappointing!"_

"_Finish your education, at least," Ginny suggested lightly, and Hermione lost some of the celestial shine in her eyes as some sense was knocked into her. _

"_Of course we will. And no matter about the rest of you," Ron said brightly and took Hermione's hands in his, causing the witch to repossess the rarely-seen blissful Hermione attitude. "We know we're going to get married. And we like the idea."_

"_We like it very much," Hermione added. "With or without silly jewelry."_

"_Look at that," George said bitterly, "already losing his sense of identity. They have a royal 'we.'"_

_Fred sighed and vocally supposed that there was no stopping the pair. He marched to the sofa and snatched the jumper, which had been resting in her lap. The rest of the room watched in confusion as he wrapped the enormous and itchy material around Hermione's left hand._

"_At least let other blokes know she's claimed," Fred advised Ron, agitated but still visibly pleased. "There now. An engagement jumper."_

_Her hand resembled a large, mutated quaffle, and she had no mobility in her fingers at all. But it pleased Ron, and Hermione did not remove it for the rest of the day._

xoxox

"Lovely story," Draco commented neutrally, his fingers still swimming in her hair.

She had omitted any silliness, and any unnecessary romantic feelings from her part. Consideration, he guessed. Still, in between the strictly factual lines, he had inferred her glowing happiness from that day. And while the quaint anecdote stirred warm, fuzzy feelings within her petite body, the same story turned his insides into ashes.

He hated Ron Weasley. How stupid, how wasteful, to hate a dead man. And yet...how unavoidable.

"He's dead," Draco said now, voice cold and sharp. "He's dead and yet he manages to still keep you."

"He doesn't." It was strange that she was not intimidated by his sudden frigid demeanor, and that she still spoke mildly despite his stiff posture beneath her. "He doesn't keep me Draco. You have me."

"Not all of you."

"Yes—"

"Hermione, now is not a time to constantly correct me," he warned softly.

"But I must if you're wrong. Which you are. You have all of me, Draco, I swear it."

Draco roughly shrugged her off, and left the bed to observe the view at the window. He stretched, as if easing the pain in his muscles would ease the pain in her admission caused. "Which means?" he asked.

"Which means I love you."

"Are you sure? I wouldn't want you to say that out of guilt. You'll lose more sleep from it." His words were detached, unemotional. Still, she was not discouraged.

"Draco, I'm certain. I do. I really have no idea why. You're very bossy, very arrogant, and at times, very cold. You rarely smile, but when you do, I like it, even if it makes your eyes look crinkly. And really, your hair is quite limp—not as shiny as it used to be. Perhaps it needs cutting. And this room is tasteful as it is, and you being in it only makes your paleness, yellow hairness, and grey eye-ness" Hermione guessed being married had a tragic effect on her vocabulary "clash with the colours. But I like you in it. Either way, with all your many faults, I'm still happy being your wife—so it must be love."

Draco pivoted slowly, hands clasped behind his back. Hermione had to admit, even if it was entirely inappropriate, that he looked devastatingly handsome when thinking deeply and lacking a shirt.

"That may be," he finally answered, in a meditative voice, "the worst declaration of love I have ever heard."

xoxox

**My ministering life-angel justified**

**Elizabeth Barett Browning; XLII**


	6. Somewhat Ominous Title

**Otakuannie:** Oh it's nice to draw such an enthusiastic response. Let's see, what is the appropriate response to "brilliant, absolutely bloody brilliant"...I give you a curtsy. You don't see it, but it's there! Heehee, I'm a bit silly, sorry. Any way, thank you so, so much for noticing the poem thing. It's not strictly poems, however, but whatever I feel is appropriate. I'm glad you liked that declaration of love bit, and I'm so sorry for waiting longer than usual to update:0)

**Earth-guide: **Eep! Up until your review, I didn't know anybody really noticed that little discussion mocking all the D/Hr plots. (blushes innocently) But, don't get me wrong, I think those premises make for fun hijinks and cute stories...it's just that I've seen a million of those. Oooh, but the one I hate, the one I cannot stand, the one I absolutely detest with every atom of my insignificant being...that make over one! Really! It's disgusting that there are some writers who honestly think that having Hermione dye her hair blonde, straighten those lovely curls, and then get a nice pair of...brains to fill her uniform provides ample reason for Draco to fall head over heels (not to mention out of character!)... It's ridiculous ! And...and I'm on my soap box again, and here I step down. Heehee, sorry...

Any way, I don't think I have a small amount of reviews or anything, but maybe, besides lacking all the usual clichés, it's because I haven't specified the thing enough. My fault entirely, really, for being too absent minded to think of that at the beginning. And thanks for that "inventive" thing, I don't think I've ever had one of my stories called that. And, really, Earth-guide, it's not good to be too perceptive...because I don't know how to react when somebody suspects something that they're not supposed to suspect _yet_! Oh, and really, it's very strange having you point out the subtle things! Yes, I made sure there would be no distractions in this developing romance (or is it re-romance? Whatever), as Hermione, busy bee, would let every thing and anything nip a romance with Draco in the bud. Very good detective work, but try not to figure out things too soon, as I don't know the ending either, and would be very peeved to learn somebody got to that before me. Thanks for the review!

**M.W. : **Thank you so much for that thoughtful review! And, I'm such a bad fanficer (is ficker a bad word? Ooh, we'll just ignore it) as you wrote something so nice and it took me forever and a day to update. I hope you'll forgive and still read:0)

**Onion Layers: **Ya know, I watched something once, about onion layers and a person's soul, something deep...but I forgot. Any ways, I'll shall navigate towards relevance and respond to your review. Aaagh! I love your story! No joke, really do! And...I'm a hypocrite, because I like to get reviews rather than write them...um, sheepish, awkward...awkward sheep...no wait, that's besides the point. The point is, I like your story, and I'm thrilled beyond thrilled that you like mine. There! I was worried that Draco would be out of character, but then I guess he would have to be considering the evil snot he is in the books. Reviewer's assurance is nice though! Thanks again!

**Aja Liebe: **(blushing) Awwww, shucks. Dunno what to say to that. Except thank you, as I'm not completely heathen and I do have some manners. And really, it's reviews like that that desperate writers like me live off of, so thankye bunchies. Really. Read between my rather inelegant lines and hopefully you'll see how much I genuinely appreciate it. As for how this develops...um, don't hate me please? I have a thing for plot twists...it's a condition...:0)

**Delovely: **D'you know, I love that song? I think it's precious. I don't know how you dance to it, but I still like it. I heard it playing in a book store. Any way, I digress...Yes, thank you, you seem to be the only one who genuinely believes truthful honest Hermione. I believed her, at any rate, though I may have something of an advantage, being writer and all. And, in case you didn't check for yourself, I've decided to go with both your suggestions, as both are accurate. Thanks again.

**Spawn32818: **Aw, sweet! I dunno if I'll ever live up to chapter five, now that so many people love it! A bit worried...any way, thanks for the helpful encouragement, and I'm sorry it took forever!

**Athena Linborn: **Um...hi? I know that's a bit of a weird reaction, but I just feel weird being reviewed by you. Because, um...awkward...I LOVE YOUR STORY! Aaaannndd...I'msorryfornot reviewingawholebunch...hee, hee sheepish. There. When doing something unpleasant, do it very quickly. Any way, in all seriousness, thank you ever so much for reviewing, and I am sorry (evil ) for putting Draco in these pitiful situations. And I'm really glad that you think this decent...so far. I have a habit, I've learned, of making my own readers hate me. Any way, thanks again, for reviewing and writing your story!

**Oli: **Heylo. Aw yay, this must be a record of non-crap chaps for me. There has yet to be one where people call me evil and say funny mean things...did I just jinx myself? I believe I did. Any way, I hope the next part clears away any doubts that you have of Hermione's feelings. And it's very sweet for having anticipation for the nw fic, even though it's being a pain in my ass right now for not progressing at all...any ways, enjoy!

The Painted Past

Chapter 6

**There's part of me you'll never know**

**The only thing I'll never show**

**Hopelessly, I'll love you endlessly**

xoxox

Hermione Granger Malfoy was a bit peeved. She had very few cases of true love, but she knew when she meant it, thank you very much, and did not appreciate it when her declarations were met with that sort of reaction.

Besides, there was many a thing silently implied when she professed her feelings. It meant that she accepted who he was—despite the fact that he was, mostly, a terrible person—and forgave all the things he had done—which were, for the most part, also terrible. Meaning...

She was ready to forgive his many prejudices against the less fortunate, and his many barbs to the not-as-rich late Ronald Weasley. She was quite at peace with the many racial slurs he had cruelly sent her way, concerning her and her normal, muggle family. And although he had so readily dismissed their quibbles of Hogwarts as childish drama, Hermione firmly remembered all those malicious hexes and beatings directed at Neville Longbottom; especially that time he and his thugs stole Neville's rememberall, the one thing that Neville particularly needed. And it was not in her power to simply forget the near death of beloved Buckbeak, the result of Draco's spiteful actions and even more spiteful father.

And her teeth! Oh yes, Hermione remembered now, with narrowing eyes that worried Draco just for a bit. Oh yes, what he had done to her teeth! If she were a lesser woman, she would have made Draco Malfoy propose a million times before relenting, simply because of that horrible spell in fourth year.

"Ah...Hermione?"

"Not now," she snapped, crossing her arms and leaning against the bedpost. "I'm darkly reminiscing."

Draco pouted for a moment. It wasn't exactly what he expected after a declaration of love, but women were a funny sort, and he decided to wait it out.

"And that song!" she exclaimed to herself with more ire than what he felt was safe. He knew better, however, than to ask.

That horrible song that rendered Ron depressed for most of fifth year! It was unspeakably cruel to eat away at a young man's confidence for fun; which was one of Draco's favourite hobbies. Make others feel worse than himself for a moment's amusement.

"You joined Umbridge's Gestapo!" she accused with a hiss.

Draco leaned back slightly to avoid her jabbing finger. "I sense that you would not believe me if I lied...?"

"You see? You see? You're a horrible, wretched, despicable man, and yet I love you. It's a bloody miracle!"

"Hermione, really, that's hardly complimentary."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I don't know what my regard for you says about myself. Or my judge of character," she told him in a hopeful tone, being thoroughly done with her "dark reminiscing" for today.

"Do you know?" Draco started with a distinctly displeased tone. "I thought, after your little mental session there, there'd be something nicer. But no. It's still the most insulting profession of affection I have ever unfortunately received. Really."

"Have you had many?" she asked with a tiny scowl, jealousy flaring before she could help it.

"Well...yes. I _am_ Draco Malfoy."

"Thank you for that clarification. For a second I thought I declared love to the wrong man."

"That's besides the point. The point is, I was nice enough to give you three separate declarations of love, each one poignant and original and _complimentary_. That was unbelievably _pitiful_."

"Oy, it was truthful," said Hermione as she arranged herself more comfortably on the bed.

"Don't oy me; I've just been insulted."

"I said it to comfort you! I could have kept it to myself, you know, instead of throwing it out to you so you could smile for a bit, and get your eyes crinkly. Go on. Be comforted."

"Damn good job." He did not respond to Hermione's teasing smile; instead, he sighed and approached the bed. Hermione looked up, a tad confused, and waited for his next words. "Go to the pensieve," he encouraged softly. "Be certain."

Hermione sat unhappily against the head board, even more confused. Emotions warred within her even more violently than before. Of course she wanted to be certain...but she also wanted Draco to be happy.

"I don't want to," she uttered softly, and jumped when Draco let out an impatient snarl.

"You said you wanted to know, it's been killing us, Hermione—"

"I want to know!" she cut in. "But I want you to tell me. That's the problem, isn't it? That's what's wrong with this situation."

She had wanted to know the truth. As did he, but it had never occurred to him that he might have to prove his words. It had never occurred to him that she wouldn't believe him.

"I trust you."

That insufferable know it all, Hermione. Draco knew, the moment the words escaped her lips, that that had been the mysterious parasite plaguing him. Of course, he had initially understood that Hermione was wary of world she didn't fully remember. But, he had been bothered more than he liked to admit or acknowledge that she didn't trust him enough to fill the blanks in her mind. And now that she did, he was happy again.

The problem had been so glaringly apparent he wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. Much too blinded by emotions, he guessed.

"Young people in love are so bloody daft sometimes," Draco remarked wryly.

xoxox

They talked for what seemed like centuries. Crookshanks would curl around Hermione's ankles with little success, for she rewarded the cat no attention. Through breakfast, lunch, and dinner, Draco narrated their friendship, then their relationship, with some embellishments that amused her despite their falseness. She knew she couldn't have been beautiful all the time, not after every battle, but they were good to hear from him.

It was difficult to keep track of the time with a perpetual conversation flowing around and weaving through their meals. And kisses. And...

Well, they _were_ married, after all.

Draco, Hermione learned with pleasure, suffered memory loss after sex. She wasn't sure if this was testimony to her talent, which she doubted considering this spouse had been the Slut of Slytherin, or if forgetfulness was something that affected all satisfied males.

"Christmas," she repeated in somewhat whiny tones against his bare shoulder. Only, she hadn't meant to bit his skin as she did so, effectively waking him from the blissful stupor he had dropped into.

"Wait a minute, love," he murmured, hand running her side beneath the bed sheets. Her breath hitched slightly as his finger lingered teasingly on her ribs. Draco, evidently, had not heard her speak. "Even a sex god like myself needs a few minutes to recover."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but could not, if her conscience had anything to do with it, refute the title he had given himself. Gingerly, she raised herself slightly and propped herself on elbows to look down on him. She was quite careful to make sure her legs did not rub against anything...interesting, thus setting off a chain reaction that would cut any conversation short.

"Christmas," she repeated, noting with amusement how Draco had yet to open his eyes or lose that silly, satisfied smirk. "What did you get me for Christmas?"

Now Draco did open his eyes. But, as lovely as he claimed her face to be, he was not particularly keen on focusing on it. His wonderfully smoldering eyes settled on the region below her neck. The mountainous region, to be exact.

"What?" he mumbled distractedly.

"We were speaking of Christmas, Draco," Hermione said, somewhat impatiently. "Before...well, before."

"Were we?" Draco licked his lips, deep in thought. "I don't recall."

"Draco, really...what are you doing?" The thin sheet that draped them both was now sliding down her back.

"I'm not doing anything. I believe I gave you a tree."

"A tree?"

"Yes. Plucked from the Hogwarts grounds with my own bare hands. You should have kept it. It's not every day a Malfoy involves himself with garden work."

"Where is it?"

"Well, in the lake, as it were. You chucked it at my head, I dodged, and the poor thing flew out the window."

"I didn't!" Hermione was so aghast by her behavior she did not notice that the sheet was completely absent from the conversation, and the only thing covering Draco was herself. And the only thing covering herself was goose bumps.

"Oh, but you did."

"Surely I had good reason. Did you get me a tree with a bee's nest in it?"

"Please, it barely reached your knee. No, love, you were terribly upset when you heard I had lost your original gift in a poker game the night before. If I recall correctly, your reaction was..."

He felt a stinging slap on his forehead. "Something like that."

"Honestly Draco. Gambling? Before Christmas? Surely there's a rule about that...oh dear."

In the course of events, before Hermione could fathom why the room looked so different, Draco had rolled her over so that his heavy body rested comfortably atop hers. She saw that, despite her best efforts to avoid doing so, she had managed to press provocatively against certain points of interest.

Crookshanks suffered every night, having found his mistress only to be locked outside her room. The poor animal was beginning to hate this damp house, and that arrogant man that came with it.

"I might have exaggerated my injuries," Draco confessed later over their meal. He was speaking of his third and final proposal. "But pretending to be near death isn't too bad, is it?"

"Yes it is," she chastised. "I imagine I was frantic."

"Yes."

"Then it was very bad. Honestly, Draco—"

"What? You were holding me in your arms, all cute and worried. I wasn't about to ruin it by saying 'I'm all right, let go of me.' In fact, I believe I was hoping you might peek under my clothes, checking for injuries."

"Such a horny victim," she remarked and Draco smiled.

"Was I a good military leader?" Hermione asked when they settled into bed.

"Very. Better than most."

"And you, a good soldier?"

"The best in the history of soldier-dom."

"Right."

The talk dwindled into small chatter, and then murmured good nights as the hours grew late. And, growing accustomed to her habits, Draco remained awake as Hermione asked one more question at an inconvenient time.

"Draco?" she whispered, shaking his shoulder.

"I'm awake."

"You are?"

"Yes. Now ask your silly question and be done with it."

"Oh...well, I wanted to know what happened to Neville Longbottom."

"Neville Longbottom?"

"Yes. I remembered he visited St. Mungo after the first battle and then went missing. What happened? Did he ever come back?"

"Yes. A little shaken, but safe...you don't remember that?" As many times that he asked that question, Hermione thought that by now he'd know the answer.

"No, Draco. Why, is it very important?"

"Yes...well, go to sleep. Longbottom's story might take a while to tell, and I'd rather get some shut eye."

She was ready to protest, but stopped when she looked at him. Draco did look tired, even more exhausted than before. Guilt sinking in her stomach, Hermione obediently nodded, thinking of the day before.

Because she was gifted with a helpful mind and a deplorable sense of curiosity, Hermione was fortunate enough to find her haunting question partially answered as soon as she floated into a deep sleep.

"_No,"_ she remembered saying firmly. The scene was nonsensical, somewhat wrong in its realism as most dreams were. For instance, Neville Longbottom had never been so short, nor should Draco have been wearing his pyjamas. And the three stood in an undamaged Gryffindor common room, which was annihilated after the first battle.

So really, it was ludicrous to trust anything in this silly vignette. But Hermione did.

"_No," Hermione said again to a determined looking Neville. "What you are asking is too dangerous, too drastic, and illegal."_

"_Now are not the days to worry about legality," Draco harshly reminded her, his face set in stubborn lines._

"_When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it," she snapped. She whirled to Neville, who leaned against he mantle tiredly. "You're going to be leading your group tomorrow for the first time, Neville. I won't do anything to jeopardize your safety, nor your abilities."_

"_Lack thereof," they heard Draco mumble under this breath._

"_Fine," Neville barked with shocking roughness. "Fine, and what if I get captured again?"_

"_It won't happen, I won't let it happen," Hermione told him in a hard, cold tone._

"_I was lucky to be rescued when I was," Neville said bluntly, "one more day and I would have told them everything."_

"_But you didn't and we appreciate that," Draco interrupted in irritation. "Look, mate—"_

"_Don't call me mate." Had they any power in them, Neville's eyes would have burned the taller boy into a crisp. Draco ignored his palpable hatred and continued in a soothing voice:_

"_Perhaps this isn't the best idea. While I won't lose any sleep if you lose your mind, Hermione and the others will. Do you think you'll improve things here by sacrificing yourself?"_

"_It'll improve everything—especially my peace of mind—if there is a guarantee that I can't reveal our secrets to the enemy. And you are the only one left strong enough to do it." Neville thrust his chin up defiantly, as if daring her to find a better solution. Which, Hermione reflected on her expressive face, she didn't._

"_The only one brave enough," Draco added quietly. Hermione faced him with smoldering eyes._

"_Pick a side, will you?" she asked him savagely. "Either you agree with Neville, or you disagree."_

"_Oh, he agrees," Neville sneered now, "he's just scared of angering you."_

"_I don't need you to speak for me," Draco said brusquely, but did not deny Longbottom's claim. "Besides, I'm worried for her too. This spell drains energy and life from the one who casts it. And I'd rather not lose our best strategists for someone as unimportant as you."_

"_Malfoy! Neville! There is no reason to act like children. There is a simple solution: just don't get caught."_

"_Please," Draco snorted, "there is a herd of third year Beauxbatons out there, attracting enough attention to catch the eye of a blind Death Eater. Do you really think Neville and his team could make it without some trouble? And, in the inevitable chance of confrontation, Longbottom will undoubtedly use that famously stupid Gryffindor courage and defend the brats, forgetting his own safety."_

"_And they know who I am," Neville pleaded soberly, "and they know that I know a lot."_

_He did, which was horrible pill to swallow. Neville Longbottom, high ranking officer that he was, knew a great deal of information, and a great deal of personal facts that not even Dumbledore knew of. Being a friend of Harry and Hermione, he knew their weaknesses, their loves, and their habits. Neville would never betray them willingly, but his mind was already weakened from his first capture. _

"_Think of it, Hermione," he said now, too solemn for one so young. "Think of what could happen if I said anything detrimental. Everything we've worked for would be lost. I've fucked up enough—"He stopped abruptly, no doubt remembering what happened fifth year at the Ministry. _

_She should have been shocked by his suggestion, by the darkness in his eyes, and by his language. But the sad part was that she wasn't. Hermione wasn't surprised by Neville's dark words; in fact, she understood. She just hoped that Neville had the ability to forget the horrible memories of war after this was all over._

_And that's what he wanted now. To forget._

"_He can't tell them anything if he doesn't have anything to tell them," Draco intoned. Hermione glanced at him speculatively._

"_And why are you pushing for this spell?"_

"_Because my goal is to win this war. And to have him tortured enough to spill secrets obliterates that goal."_

"_Famously sickening Slytherin ambition," Hermione hissed with mounting fury. "So you don't care if Neville gets tortured, as long as he says nothing?"_

"_You heard him," Draco replied heartlessly, "we're not mates." And, seemingly to emphasize his cold blooded character, he added with a sneer, "That ass can die for all I care. I don't want my side to lose."_

"_This isn't about sides!" Hermione raged, seething. "This isn't about battle plans or secrets! This is about a boy's life, a boy's memory." Neville protested the use of the word "boy," but was interrupted. "For god's sake, Neville, don't you understand? If I did this—which I won't—you would lose a part of you. Part of your self, your identity, would be lost forever. Don't you understand?"_

"_Don't be pessimistic." The words, surprisingly enough, came from Draco. "Perhaps not forever."_

_Hermione ignored him, and focused her fretting gaze on her friend. "Do you understand that?"_

"_Of course I do," he answered with a helpless determination. "But if you weighed the importance of my memories, and then the importance of the lives I could protect by losing them..."_

_He was right. He was right and she hated him for that. Hermione blinked away the tears. "No," she said softly, "no, we could just assign somebody else to rescue the third years—"_

"_Nobody knows the secret paths like Longbottom," Draco reasoned. Too true; the battles had one positive effect: improving Neville's memory a tenfold. "And it would take a few more hours for our superiors to approve a mission transfer. The children might be found out by then."_

_Hermione stared at Draco, who unflinchingly gazed back. "You don't care about those children," she accused._

"_Oh, but I do, Granger," he contradicted suavely. Neville and Hermione stared at him in surprise. Draco added, "One is reputed to be particularly gifted with Divination. And we need all the help we can get."_

_As a human, Hermione was appalled at his military way of thinking. As fighting witch and strategist, she was pleased._

"_And I won't be retired," Neville said stalwartly. "I won't be relieved of my orders just because I'm a liability."_

_Hermione plucked the parchment from Draco's hands, and reviewed the spell with a critical eye. _

"_It would take hours," she dismissed it shortly, "and I have an agenda tonight—"_

"_I spoke with Brown," Draco interrupted, gray eyes glittering with resolve. Damn Slytherin ambition. He had set his sights on this spell, Hermione saw now, and she now understood that if she would not cast it, he would find somebody who would. Somebody who was possibly less talented, or less cautious. Somebody who could possibly hurt Neville if he did it wrong._

"_And she's willing to overtake your duties," he finished._

"_Did you tell her why?"_

"_Yes."_

"_And?"_

_Neville spoke. "She approves. Three approve and one who doesn't. Doesn't majority rule?"_

"_Perhaps..." she hesitated, and the males waited anxiously for her answer. But Hermione gave none, and instead said abruptly, "Harry is a far more powerful wizard than me."_

"_Fuck that," Draco immediately said, looking almost panicked. "That one has morals—no offense, Granger—and if you're this angry, think of him! Besides, Potter has been brooding enough without adding one more problem to his impressive collection."_

_Despite his language, she couldn't help but agree. Harry would refuse outright, with enough righteous anger to kill a hundred dark wizards—or Draco, who was just as good and much more convenient with his proximity. Also, in the slim chance he would perform the spell, Harry would add another ton of guilt to his already troubled mind. Hermione frowned and read the spell again, not recognising the scrawling hand writing. "Where did you get this?" she asked suspiciously of Draco._

_He rolled his eyes. "Look, either you make a decision or—"_

_Hermione would not have this ferret of a boy overruling her authority. She silenced him with one, angry stare and the pale boy fell silent. "Wait in Snape's old class room," she told Neville, and read over the spell once more. Draco remained rooted to his spot as the boy left them alone. Hermione watched him leave, noting how he did not go eagerly, but he was not afraid either. _

"_You're doing the right thing," Draco said softly, breaking the stifling silence. _

"_Am I?" Hermione approached him swiftly, eyes bright with unshed tears. "I'm about to set one of the worst spells on my few friends left. How is this the right thing?"_

_Draco gazed down at her, and said nothing. They both knew that if Neville was to be captured, he would most certainly leak information under duress of torment. And they both knew that such a leak would put thousands, possibly millions of wizards, witches, and muggles in danger. So he said none of these well known things._

_Instead he bent down and gave a quick, chaste kiss on her cheek. He straightened immediately and said in a gruff voice, "Earlier I called the Gryffindor courage stupid. Far from it. I think it's very brave to put in danger one person you care about, just for the sake of many whom you don't care about. For the sake of many who don't even know you."_

_Hermione put one, trembling hand on the spot his lips had touched. "You kissed me."_

_Draco, uncomfortable and amused, stepped back. "Yes. Always a bright one, weren't you?"_

"_Why?"_

_He shrugged, with irksome indifference. "A thanks, I suppose, from all those who won't give it."_

_And he left._

The scene blurred, and changed to one of Snape's dungeons. But they were not realistic, for in Hermione's mind's eye, the dungeons always appeared more daunting than they actually were. The walls now were darker, the torches fainter, and the general atmosphere more foreboding.

_But the place was not as important as what was taking place. Hermione saw the fuzzy image of Neville, unconscious, as he laid on the teacher's desk. Hermione and Draco stood over his inert form._

"_What have I done?" Hermione asked in a horrified whisper. Draco grimaced at the sight of Longbottom's pale face, and tried, quite insensitively, to slap the boy awake. She yanked his hand back in outright anger. "Really, Malfoy—"_

_Neville groaned, his hair matted to his forehead with sweat. His eyes fluttered open, and he stared at them with fuzzy confusion. "Where am I?"_

_The three words sent Hermione into hysterics. Her babbling, her screaming, and her frantic gestures frightened them both, until Draco was forced to physically contain her. Trapped in his arms, Hermione could not regulate her breathing, nor her tears._

"_Oh god, oh no, I did it wrong. I did it wrong, I've ruined him. He doesn't know where he is, he doesn't know who he is—"_

"_I know who I am," Neville contradicted timidly. Draco frowned at him and then understood._

"_But, but—"Hermione continued in her hysterical fashion until Malfoy shook her._

"_All he asked was where he was. A common enough question to those knocked unconscious. You did it right."_

"_Are you certain?" she asked tearfully. Draco, sure of her composure, released her, and turned somberly to the supine boy._

"_Do you know Harry Potter?"_

"_Of course."_

"_Hermione Granger?"_

"_Yes."_

"_And me?"_

"_Unfortunately, yes."_

"_Do you know our favourite places to go, to discuss tactics or be alone?"_

_Neville opened his mouth to answer, but caught himself. With a deepening frown, he said, "No...should I?"_

_Draco smiled in satisfaction, and turned to observe Hermione's reaction. _

"_She's fainted," she heard in between the roaring in her ears._

"_Still have that gift of redundancy," she heard Draco reply, and then felt somebody's strong arms lift her body._

xoxox

Breakfast conversation was stilted the next morning, the words so scripted and awkward that finally, after his toast but before his bacon, Draco had had enough.

"You're still thinking of that question from last night."

"So what if I am," she replied, mouth set in a mutinous line.

"He's not even important!"

"He is to me. Is he alive?"

"Yes."

"Is he safe?"

"Yes," he droned, giving a martyred look to her cat, who did not pity him in the least.

"Is he sane?"

"Other than the delusion that he's a 'fine specimen of a man,' as you once told him, yes he's sane."

"So just tell me what happened to him and we'll bury this little conflict."

Draco sighed, and gave an apologetic smile. "I'll be late for work."

"You've been missing work. Which, by the way, is what?"

"Ministry. Management...office work."

"Oh. Well, Neville? Don't roll your eyes. And don't sigh like that, honestly, you'd think it's an enormous task—"

"Fine, fine, fine. Neville Longbottom was captured once, and then released once we managed a trade of hostages. Then, during a successful recruitment mission just outside our school, he was captured again, and was kept for a longer period of time. Luckily, parts of his memory were erased so that nothing of use could fall into enemy hands. Then, you and I led the rescue squad for him."

A pause.

"That's it?"

"What more do you want? Fine, and the fat bloke lived happily ever after."

"I mean, how did he happen to have his memory erased?"

Draco shifted in discomfort. "A talented wizard had done that."

"Who?"

Draco shrugged, and poked at his eggs. "Somebody or other. I wouldn't know."

"Oh, is that so?"

"Yes. Neville had it done without any of us knowing. Potter, if I recall correctly, had been absolutely livid once he learned what Longbottom had done to himself. Even the great and powerful Potty never knew who had cast the spell."

"Pity. Somebody like that would be very powerful."

"Yes...I suppose."

Hermione didn't know why she wasn't livid. Perhaps it was because the only thing contradicting his explanation was a distorted dream, and that he had seemed truthful enough before. But the stronger reason, the scarier reason, was that any accusations she made now would ruin what they had created the day before. Trust. It had been missing for so long that to kill it would hurt more than anything she could remember.

Besides, surely he kept it secret for her sake. Because he didn't want her to recollect the pain, and the guilt that attacked her when Neville became blank, faced with a question he should have known the answer to. Draco simply did not want to hurt her again.

"Should we visit him? Just to see how he's doing?"

Draco shook his head. "Out of country, at the moment." And, in a quieter tone that Hermione was only just able to hear, he added, "And good riddance."

"Well," she said brightly, "go to work then. After so many days off you should go and get something done."

Draco stood, perplexed by her sunny smile, and shook his head. "No. I've planned this day to go get your wand replaced. They won't miss me."

Hermione smiled genuinely and finished her breakfast. "Okay then. I'll just shower."

"Right. We'll just shower and—"

"Draco," she laughed, and stood. "We've discussed this."

"What? Oh, all right, we'll shower together if you want." He had yet to finish his own plate, and told his eggs that it was exhausting to be so desirable.

"Draco, you arrogant git. Don't play with your food," she scolded as she left the room. Hermione returned to their chamber and hurriedly picked out clothes. She had been so consumed with the domestic matters that she had forgotten all about her wand. Although neither liked to point it out, Draco had distinct advantage over her by possessing his wand, which had frightened her immensely when she first awoke. But Draco had been so helpful and, at the same time, frustrating, that she hadn't felt any need for magic. The idea of retrieving the instrument excited her like a new gift would excite a small child. She all but skipped to the shower.

Where Draco was waiting, once again wearing what he was born in. She supposed that, either she had been ridiculously slow choosing her wardrobe and daydreaming of her husband, or he was very sneaky and fast. She liked to think the latter. Covering her eyes, Hermione threw a towel in his general direction, and exclaimed, "Draco, there is a time and place for everything and—"

"Technically," Draco said, wrapping a towel around his waist. "This shower belongs to both us, by that whole sharing clause in the vows."

"What a romantic way of putting it," Hermione snorted, and set her items on the sink.

"So," he continued airily, "half of it is yours, and half of it is mine. You could stand on the right side, and me on left."

Hermione studied him, and saw that his hair turned a darker shade of blonde when wet. "You've already showered. There's nothing to do on your left side."

"Now, now, what I do in Draco Territory is my own business. You just shower on your right side and mind your own nude affairs. If the soap happens to fall into my region, I'll be forced to counter attack. Physically."

"Draco, when it comes right down to it, the entire shower is mine, as is your free will. You didn't understand that when you signed the marriage license?"

Draco pouted, and grabbed another towel to dry his hair as he sauntered past her. "Damn that fine print." Hermione glanced at him in the mirror, and saw that a bit of sincere disappointment dusted her husband's face as he closed the door. Just before he could click it shut, Hermione spoke up again.

"Draco, when it comes down to it, would you choose my happiness or yours?"

Draco, who had thought it was an appeal on the separate showers verdict, now smiled. "Why, Hermione, they're synonymous."

"Big word for you, Malfoy," she commented with a grin. "But is it accurate?"

Draco, disliking her mocking tone, promptly marched in and pulled her tight against him. For the second time in too many days, she found her clothes damp from his wet skin. But when his lips pressed tenderly against hers, she decided she didn't mind too much.

"Wear your ugly jumper," he murmured against her mouth, nibbling on her bottom lip.

"Why?" she asked breathlessly as his lips made a trail of fire along her jaw line.

"To repulse all those men who become interested. And with delicious skin like this, they will be interested." As if to prove his point, his tongue darted out to taste her neck.

"It's...too...hot," she managed to say, not sure if she was referring to the present or the weather outside.

"Around your shoulders," he suggested, quitting his assault on her flushed throat. "I don't want you getting sick."

"Very protective of you, Draco," she exhaled, distracted. Quickly, much too quickly, he let go, and she nearly stumbled from the loss of contact.

"See?" he asked smugly. "Synonymous." Hermione would have wittily replied if not for the lack of air in her lungs. She summoned a somewhat annoyed look as he swaggered out, and left her to her shower.

She undressed quickly and stepped into the waiting waterfall, which modified its temperature when she frowned. The door opened once, but only to let in a pale arm bearing her engagement jumper, which was tossed atop the rest of her attire.

It comforted her to know that he did not mind her past so much. He was so confident—which, once she contemplated it, was not a tremendous surprise—of their love that the reminder of her other fiancé did not peeve him in the slightest. And he should be, she reflected as she rinsed her hair. Because she truly loved him, with an intensity that both frightened and comforted her.

This one was alive. And this would not leave her.

Humming, she dressed in jeans and a white, short sleeved blouse, and draped the jumper over her shoulders. It was not a particularly fetching ensemble, but she was not going to Diagon Alley to attract admiration. She had enough adoration from Draco to last a life time.

_Hermione recalled once telling Draco, during one of their violent rows in the Head Boy and Head Girl common room, "You call me mudblood as if it were a disadvantage. But you must remember that being muggleborn means that I know how to survive without magic; unlike your inbred self."_

"_I am not inbred," he had shouted back hotly._

"_No, you don't look that funny. But one day, when you run out of purebloods to marry, I imagine you'll produce albino, totty headed children, who couldn't hex a fly because they can't focus on it with crossed eyes."_

And Ron had loved that story when she retold it later that day. And she loved the feeling of defeating the ferret into speechlessness at least one time.

She still did, Hermione realised as she wrapped her hair in a towel, intending to ask Draco to perform a drying spell. It was a joy to win in a battle of wits, and even a greater joy to lose, for the punishment was always enjoyable. Yes, she decided as she opened the door. It was quite all right being Mrs. Malfoy.

Neville Longbottom stood before her. The fine specimen of a man, here, at her loo door. His round face was grim, angry, and regretful. A wand was brandished at her with unwavering courage. It took longer than usual for her swift logic to understand. _Neville Longbottom_? Intending harm towards_ Hermione Granger Malfoy_?

Strange, to say the least.

Coincidental, inconvenient, badly timed, ill fated, and utterly confusing...to say the most.

She wanted to say something about how he was supposed to be out of the country. She wanted to call for Draco and demand an explanation. She wanted to tell Neville to put that away before he hurt someone.

But her words couldn't quite make it around the lump growing in her throat.

_Had Draco lied then?_ Her timid mind asked her. And, for a horrible moment, she had no answer for her own question. Then she decided:

No. No, she had told him that she trusted him. And she would not turn her back on her husband and love simply because some old school mate decided to return to the kingdom.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," the man murmured in a sorrow filled tone. It was the tone of a man who was about to do something he wished he didn't have to do. A tone Hermione used often enough before she hexed someone.

She kicked him. Where a man always feared of being kicked.

She hadn't wanted to. No moral woman wants to kick a well meaning, good hearted wizard and former child hood friend, but he had started it.

Neville let out a wheezed oath as she ran down the corridor, and to the bed room. A strange meeting awaited her there.

Damn it. This wasn't happening...this just couldn't be happening...

xoxox

**Hopelessly, I'll give you everything**

**But I won't give you up.**

**I won't let you down.**

**Endlessly by Muse**


	7. Living the Lie

**Oli:** Yellow! Now, now, Oli, it's not a matter of "Did Draco lie?" as you asked. Considering what we know of Draco from the past five books, and his overall character...it's a matter of "Didn't Draco lie?" I love Neville...love him enough to know he could take a swift kick in the apricots without dying! Stop poor-ing Draco, Oli, honestly:0) I have the sneaking suspicion the character could kick cruppies and you'd still be saying "poor draco"! But, as dismal as things may seem, I promise, promise, promise things won't be so bad for him a chapter or two (or three, or four, come to think of it...better make it five, just in case) away... Thanks for the well wishing with my homelessness, and I hope you don't hate me after this chapter:0)

**Dastardly Snail: **Yes! Yes another one! No, you're mistaken, cliffhangers are the bearers of all that is good...gonna buy that? Thought not. And yay Neville! I love him very much, which partially explains my nearly consuming hatred of Draco...Any who, thanks bunches for the review.

**Robin: **Well, now...what is the proper etiquette when faced with threats? I guess updating is appropriate response...:0) Right well, thanks for reviewing, for I like them no matter how harmful, and I hope I didn't wait too long!

**Onion Layers: **Thanky much, and I'm starting to sense some hostility concerning that last cliff hanger ending...I suppose this means I can't do it again? Damn, I'm apparently good at those. Well, I hope you and your surviving nails have waited long enough, and will like this chap. Thanky much again with the good luck, though I think that student WITH job is stressful enough. Happy trails!

**Otakuannie: **Ah...firstly, I hope you sustained little injuries from falling to the floor and sobbing uncontrollably. Secondly, I ended it there because...erm...I'm evil? It seems to be popular opinion and I'm not one to argue with that, often, at least. Yep, I ended it there cuz I'm evil. Strange, I didn't know that little bit with Draco saying that would affect somebody that much. I'm touched though, that my lil fic managed to make you think of that...my cuz worked in the wtc, and that business about iraq...um...well, I won't say anything on that, as the soap box will be whipped out, and it's very difficult to put away! Well, good luck with those 'damn hormones' (hehe, that's funny) and I hope you like the interesting plot twists in this chappie!

**Athena Linborn: **Where did Neville spring from, you asked...well, when a witch and a wizard love each other very much...hehe, I'm just being silly. Any ways, I'm all extra flattered that you liked that chapter, even though it sort of twisted in a way that some people did not want it to be twisted. And then, I got all extra extra flattered with that bit about my lil fic being properly thought out and having a nice take on Draco...really, dunno how to handle compliments...except thanks once again! Thinking, thinking, thinking...well, while not out of his character, I don't think Draco will have much time for jealousy in the ensuing events, but we will see plenty examples of his unreasonable gittish side. I, upon hating the fellow, believe that he shows this constantly, but I'm biased, so I don't count. Oh, and it was very sweet of you to wish me luck, though—it's dangerous to say this—I'm kinda enjoying unemployment and leeching off others...Any who, thanks again for loverly reviews!

**Aja liebe: **Yes, yes, terribly sorry! I know cliff hangers are terrible, and I don't know why I decided to put that last one. I mean, it's not very usual for me...maybe it's something I've developed for just this story? Oh, that wouldn't be nice! Any way, I'm glad you're not overly shocked by the progress, and I hoped you're not too shocked by upcoming events. Thanks again!

The Painted Past

Chapter 7

**If I smile and don't believe**

**Soon I know, **

**I'll wake from this dream**

**Don't try to fix me**

xoxox

Draco stood, hands bound, in a belligerent circle of robed wizards and witches. They were standing just before the door, with their wands out and ready for an attack.

"What are you doing?" she cried furiously, and broke through them to cling to Draco's immobile arm. Hermione wouldn't have described it as "clinging," for that implied a sense of needy love to which she refused to fall victim. But she was clinging, no doubt about it, with enough strength that caused her husband to wince. "What are you, vengeful Death Eaters?" It was insensible to stand before them unarmed, but Hermione couldn't let her husband be hexed without at least trying to protect him.

One woman, apparently the leader, stepped forward, bearing Hermione's blistering gaze with laudable coolness. Others had shrunk away from her ferocious eyes. She was grey haired and spoke with a pinched expression. "Your accusation offends us to the highest degree, Miss Granger." From the thin air, she produced a long parchment—Hermione had snidely thought, _Show off_, and did not say so aloud out of politeness—and she began to read in a monotone voice.

But Hermione barely heard the words; her mind honed in on the seal on the paper. The Ministry of Magic.

They were, of course, not vengeful Death Eaters. For one merely had to observe their robes, their badges, and their undeniable sense of righteous authority to see that she and her husband were surrounded by Hit Wizards.

She turned slowly, brows furrowing in bewilderment. Draco stared down at her, grey eyes unreadable.

"Did you get in trouble at work?" she asked clearly, hewing into the elderly woman's speech. It had been about something unrelated to their intrusive situation, something about crimes.

For nobody was a criminal _here_.

"No, Hermione," he answered hoarsely. He looked away, which was unlike the direct and arrogant Draco she knew and loved. Most likely the effect of these bothersome callers. Irate that the uninvited troop had made him so reticent, Hermione returned her attention to the meddlers.

"Why are you people here?" Hermione demanded, marching up to the woman, who was tall and intimidating. The witch stared down her crooked nose at the indignant girl. "You can't simply show up," Hermione continued angrily, "uninvited, put a bond on his hands, and nearly—"

"She kicked me," Neville said breathlessly, suddenly appearing at the door way. "She got away."

"Still got that gift of redundancy," Draco quipped, looking, at least to Hermione, strangely debonair as he insulted people with his hands bound behind his back. The devil may care smile was back on his talented lips, but Hermione knew instinctively that it was for show.

"What did you do to her?" Neville demanded now, taking long, if not pained, strides before Malfoy. "What did you do?"

"To whom?" Hermione demanded, growing more and more frustrated by the second. These strangers began to regard her with suspicion, apathy, or, worst of all, pity. And she had no idea why. "Draco did nothing. He's been here with me for the past few days—"

"Why?" Neville rounded on her, eyes wide with wonder. "Why would you, after what he did to me? To you?"

"I don't understand! Draco has done nothing wrong!"

"Are you so certain?" the woman asked coldly, eyes sweeping over Hermione as if she was an infectious insect. "Or have you been influenced?" Neville appeared as if he wanted to defend Hermione, but restrained himself.

"What do you mean?" Hermione had lost some of her anger, and in its place an unpleasant feeling of ignorance grew. "Influence of what sort?"

But a part of her, a damned, heartless, unfaithful part, knew exactly what sort of influence.

But Draco wouldn't do that, her heart argued indefatigably. Not to her. He said that he loved her, hadn't he? And surely he wouldn't do that to somebody he loved?

"Some called Draco Malfoy an artist of seduction," the woman continued, glancing at Draco, who had the audacity to wink. Hermione sighed, because, really, now was not the time to antagonize the attackers. There was never a proper time to antagonize attackers. Disgusted, the stranger returned her attention once again to Mrs. Malfoy. "Though I never would have believed that the much respected Hermione Granger would fall prey to his charms."

"It's not like that!" Neville exploded, unable to contain himself any longer. His superior was visibly shocked and disappointed by his outburst. "Hermione would never fall prey to anybody!" Neville turned to the girl in question, eyes wide with uncertainty. "Right?"

At once, she felt as if now had been turned back to a time when a perpetually puzzled boy named Neville Longbottom sometimes sought the wise beyond her years girl named Hermione Granger for guidance. But times had changed. And she was no longer Hermione Granger. She wished with all her heart she could erase the sadness in his eyes, but her loyalties lied else where now.

"I'm not Hermione Granger," she said quietly. "It's Hermione Malfoy now."

"No," Neville said in a hurt, small voice. "No, Hermione—"

"I love you," Draco said suddenly. Sun light pouring in from the window bathed them all mercilessly in its heat. Beads of sweat formed on his upper lip as he stepped closer to her, heedless of the warning wands pointing his way.

"I love you," he said again, strangely adamant, "no matter what happens, remember that I love you." The grey eyes now lightened as he struggled to convey his meaning, piercing her with their intensity.

"Draco, it's all right," she assured him as her own brown eyes filled. She looped her arms under his elbows, and around his middle. Hermione had seen some of the fear in his eyes, and hated how foreign the emotion was to his stormy gaze. She wanted that cocky, flawless grey look to return. "I won't let them hurt you."

"I've got it!" Neville said suddenly, startling them all from the mesmerizing scene the married pair created. "He's doing to her what's been done to me. We can't arrest her, Mrs. Engleman, because she's a victim."

"I am not!" Hermione let go of her husband in indignation. "He has done nothing to me! Neville! How could you sink so low as to join such a deranged group of psychopaths?"

The question only fueled the crazy boy's preposterous theory, whatever it was. "You see? She doesn't make any sense! And, Hermione, you have memory lapses, don't you?"

Something within her stirred so abruptly she almost winced. _No_, she decided, _what a silly suspicion_. They were obviously speaking of the accident. "Are you referring to the potions explosion at Beauxbatons?"

Her question, as innocent as it was, did a miraculous thing to the overall attitude of the ten wizards and witches surrounding them. Even the leader's expression softened as she stepped closer. Hermione wanted to retreat from this imposing woman's touch, but stood her ground courageously as one rough hand grabbed her left arm.

"You have scars," she murmured.

"Yes, from the accident," Hermione explained haughtily. "At the lab at—"

"Beauxbatons is closed for reconstruction, Hermione," Neville told her softly. "But you knew that, didn't you?"

That inward stirring, that overwhelming churning of her insides suddenly collapsed, imploding on her so forcefully she nearly stumbled. All that was left, all she could feel, was the dull thud, thud, thud of her heavy heart. Too loud, too loud, she told it in a dead, empty voice, but suddenly it wasn't important. It did not matter if her heart were to beat so hard it escaped; for now it was beginning to break, ever so slightly.

Hermione shook her head wordlessly. She frowned at Neville, and then Engleman, and then the rest of the sympathetic team around them. "I don't understand," she finally confessed. Her heart had accelerated to a dangerous tempo when her mind began to string together a theory—a theory she could not and would not consider. Hermione noticed that her hands refused to stop shaking, and she hugged herself tightly. No, she decided. These people were not making sense and obviously they needed some help.

Neville's eyes hardened as they focused on the man behind her. "Ask your _husband_ then."

_But I don't want to_, she thought childishly, just as one did not want to see a dead body to confirm the death of a loved one. She didn't want to see the guilt on Draco's face, supporting all the condemning words these strangers were spouting. To turn and to ask him would destroy the love he had so fiercely declared a few seconds ago. She shook her head, tears falling in the process.

"Hermione," Draco finally said behind her. His voice was sad and hushed. But that didn't necessarily mean guilt, she tried to tell herself hopefully. Just because he sounded defeated was no reason to believe him of any wrong doing.

Hermione turned, and swallowed the lump in her throat when Draco smiled wanly.

"Tell me anything," she said almost involuntarily. The words forced their way out of her mouth at a dizzying rate. "Tell me anything, Draco, please, and I'll believe you. Give any explanation, no matter how silly, no matter how far fetched, and I'll believe you." By now she could not swallow the tears, and she could no longer quell the sobs. Hermione wrapped her arms around his neck, praying and hoping that this was another, ridiculous nightmare.

One innocent and cynical observer could have called it pride. Dignity, or whatever scraps of it remained. The belated and doomed rescue of the reputation of intelligence and ingenuity of Hermione Granger. She was simply looking for a scenario that made her appear less stupid; she was simply seeking a rational explanation that proved these ten witches wrong and herself right, they would say. It would never occur to this skeptic that she whimpered the requests out of loyalty, that she stated her faith in him because of vows her heart had pledged, refusing to abandon her word at this first, agonizing test.

"Please, Draco," she begged, "just tell me not to believe them and I won't. I'll believe you."

Draco's mouth trembled as one, two, three tears rolled down his cheeks. "You'd believe me?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

"After everything we've said?" Neville asked incredulously.

"After everything they've said," Hermione repeated solemnly, wiping away his tears with unmistakable love, kissing his lips with inspiring loyalty. "Just give me any story, Draco," she asked as her own tears streamed down her face, "and I'll believe you. Because I trust you, Draco. And I meant it when I said that I loved you."

Draco kissed her again, softly, on her cheek. He knew, now, that she truly did mean it when she had said it. And that, in itself was enough. Her love was enough, no matter what happened the next day, or the next week, or the next century. Hermione loved him.

And that was enough to tell the truth.

xoxox

Hermione stood silently in the foyer, barely listening to the screeches of the portrait permanently hanging on the wall. Her bags—only two, for she owned little at the Malfoy Manor—were carried up by a student she barely remembered as a first year.

Sirius Black's house. Where people were hidden and kept safe.

But hadn't she had enough of that for the past seven months?

Who knows how long she stood, taking abuse from a painting, staring around with glassy eyes. The wizard, with his pitying gaze and words of encouragement, had done his duty and was gone. Nobody had come to greet her, which was understandable, as this place was now empty. There was no use for secrecy now that Harry had won. No use for friends and conspirators to meet at Grimmauld Place. And, even if there were a few people around, nobody would be awake at the dead of night.

Mechanically, she went to the kitchen and sat, for her knees became too unsteady to stand on any more. Mrs. Black continued her abuse, ranting so loudly that Hermione could hear her despite the distance. Physically at least.

The insults could not penetrate the fog that had settled in her mind, and, even if they had, Hermione could not be stung. After what had just happened in the last twenty four hours, she felt that it would take a great deal more than petty words to hurt her. Yes, a great, monstrous, gigantic deal more.

She had a vague feeling of hunger. And the niggling idea of sleepiness. Plus the faint plague of thirst.

But all three took too much energy. Getting the food, in the pantry just a foot away, seemed like an impossible task at the moment. And never mind the notion of standing, walking up the steps, and falling into bed. And finding a drink? Impossible.

Hermione could think of nothing to do. Except sit, and wait.

_No_, her mind encouraged helpfully, _read_. _Neville gave you that book._

She clutched _The Princess Bride_ tightly in one hand. Her grip hurt her fingers, but she was frightened of letting it go, for some reason.

And she would have read it, truly she would have, if her fingers did not shake so badly. It took an eternity to simply lift the front cover. Hermione bit her lip, biting back a sob, when she realised that she couldn't even concentrate on the words.

"Stupid stupid girl!" she chided herself harshly. "Can't even read the title page! Stupid, blind, silly girl!" Hermione tasted blood and knew she had bit too hard. She wanted to read, she wanted to prove that she could do something without him, anything without him...

Because that was the way it was going to be, from now on.

Without him.

"Fuck!" she sobbed loudly. Her hands clenched banging on the table. "Fuck!" she yelled through the vale of tears. "You bastard!" A heated insult to one who was not there. To one who was in questioning.

"I didn't mean it," Hermione apologised instantly, fearful eyes darting side to side. "I'm sorry."

The shadows did not answer her. There were no sounds in the room, because by now even the long lasting diatribe of Mrs. Black had ended. Hermione could hear her own rapid breathing, and shakily took up the book again.

The paper glued to the back of the front cover was loose. She shouldn't have cared. It was paper and it was a book and that's what good old reliable books did; come loose.

Furious beyond reason, she ripped at the paper. Hermione loved the sound, the distinct tearing noise that irrevocably meant permanent separation.

She stared at the thin material in her hand, and wondered how the hell could she fix it back onto the sturdy, reliable cover. Glue perhaps? Or could spell-o tape be better?

She placed it delicately back on the cover, opposite the title page, and lined the seams perfectly. There. Now, for some tape—

Hermione frowned. She had placed it upside down. How silly.

And somebody had written on the back of that sheet. _Very_ silly. For it was one in a million chance that somebody would rip off the paper off the front cover, looking for a messily scrawled message. Who would be silly—and desperately secretive and paranoid—enough to write a message there?

Hermione Granger, obviously.

For there it was. Plain as day, dark as night.

_Hermione Granger_

_June 15th_

_Remember, Granger, try._

She didn't even like this book, Hermione remembered now. The Florentine descriptions were too long winded for her tastes. Why she had wanted to read it she couldn't remember.

Until now.

Meaning she had known before. She had found out before.

And he had made sure she forgot.

"Not so stupid," Hermione decided aloud. She leafed through the pages, disinterested.

No, no, not so stupid. Hermione found out, only somewhat relieved, that she was intelligent. Had been, still was, and always would be. She sat numbly, turning the pages with mechanical precision, her eyes focusing on the words here and there. Smart, she kept thinking, dissecting and exploring the word mentally. But smart enough?

The doubt gnawed at her.

Was there enough of anything...without him?

She turned to the spot where the corner had been folded to book mark the page. And fell into a wonderfully deserved, blessedly dreamless sleep.

xoxox

**I'm not broken**

**Hello, I'm the lie**

**Living for you so you **

**Can hide, don't cry**

**Hello, by Evanescence**


	8. The Naked Truth

**Tara-Yo: **I laughed when I read your review. I guess it's my incurable habit to leave readers incredibly confused! Hopefully that confusion will end when you're done with the next few chapters! "Relationship or lack of one..." I liked that bit. It's very true. Thanks though, for the comments!

**Mia-Fitzpatrick: **Hee hee, I've heard that one before. Dunno what to say to the lack of reviews except maybe I need a new blurb? I dunno. I pleased any way, because what I lack in number I have in quality. Your review was so, so nice! Makes me feel kind of bad for taking so long, with your 'dying' for the next installment and everything. Bad, bad, horrible me! I think if I left it with that last one, there might have been one less fanfic writer in the world (what with all the death threats I'm so talented in receiving!), but thanks for the thanks any way. I'm very grateful for your well wishing and recommendations, and stop complimenting me or I'll die from blushing! Then nobody would finish the fic:0)

**Ajaliebe: **Thanks for the review. It did sound to me like a challenge, though, so (despite a lot of people's protests) I will find twists that hopefully your mind hasn't thought of at all. The only trick is to make them plausible! I'm glad my writing style isn't too strange, so thanks again!

**J Deann: **Hee, hee, hee...yes, I find sadistic pleasure in startling the pants off of people. Though, as mean as I am, I don't like causing ulcers, so I will finish this! (Just not as soon as anybody could hope) I will take your advice and writer continuously...just not feverishly, because that sounds unhealthy. :0) Thanks for the encouragement!

**Lisi: **Thank you so much for the love! You are not alone, however, for quite a number of people are confused. Dunno if I'm pleased with this effect, but I hope you won't be as confused after these two chappies. Sorry I left in you in a state of confusion for so long! Thanks again!

**Onion Layers: **Ah! Didn't know it was an evil cliff hanger! I thought it was more of a...gentle hill slope? Me and my stupid geographic metaphors. Any who, cringe no more! Two whole chapters! Yay! Yes, heave all the rotting vegetables (tomatoes, they're softer) on that villain that is Draco Malfoy, and ignore the fact that I have evil plot twists. Thanks for the review, and I hope that these next chapters, though not as action filled, are still satisfactory.

**La KitSa: **Yes, I seem to be hearing that a lot, that bit about not having a whole lot of reviews. Well, as I've said before, it's because I was a lazy ass and didn't pick out any specifications early on. Woe is me, I suppose—though, really, I don't want to be greedy and browbeat people into reviewing. I've got nice people like you who do review, so that's enough! God, I know summer classes are in my future, but I've been trying to put them off as long as possible. I hope my story didn't interfere with your academic progress so far!

Any who, yup, chappie 7 is quite a doozie. I didn't know it would stir quite that violent of a reaction from people, so I might hold back such evilness in the future. I'm glad that Draco isn't out of character, and yes, it is bad to skip to the last chapter (I used to do that, though, so I shouldn't really talk!) Thanks though, for the review!

**Dastardly Snail: **Laughed out loud. Thanks for the review, and I never expected anybody to feel triumphant after the last chapter!

**Sweet Beatrix: **Well, I'm pleased to know my crap has that strong of an effect on people. But do you know? I was even more pleased (wait, that's the wrong word. Absolutely elated is more like it) to read your second comment? I mean, D/Hr shippers are so adamant with that pairing that I didn't even know it was possible to sway one! I love Draco/Hermione fics because of all the lovely angst that could happen, but I absolutely adore, above anything else, Ron/Hermione fics. You've made me so happy! Any way, thanky much for the great review, and I hope I live up to all expectations with the following two chapters!

**gATITA182: **Interesting? I guess so. Confusing? Yeah, probably. I've found that I have the habit of not really informing the readers and reviewers up front. I hope it didn't frustrate you. Any way, I didn't have the heart to leave it there, so here ya go!

**Sugar n spice 522: **Well, you'll find out everything in these two chapters! No way it's over...not that I knew when it would end, but I know it's not any time soon. Thanks for your compliments and I hope you like these two!

**Oli: **Ya know, that whole 'Purple!' thing totally threw me off, until I remembered my whole 'Yellow!' thing...yup, slow writer here... Poor Draco? Don't see how that's feasible...but yes, it is all very dramatic. I don't mind suffering as much as others do, I guess...it's character building. Exammy badness? How's that going? I don't know if Hermione would forgive him...would you? And I'm glad that you enjoy the many twists, and I'm sure that there'll be a few more to come. Thanks again!

**Otakuannie: **You have no idea how much I laughed over your review! My twisty plot to hell...that was really funny. Now, you asked why. Well, mostly because a purely 'nice happy fluffy romance' is not remotely possible between two characters such as Hermione and Draco—too different, too much adversity... Sorry, Annie, but I could not, in my good conscience, allow them to find true love (if it is that) without some bumps and scrapes along the way. What a coink-e-dink, love evanescence too... I did update, though, so you can't commit homicide!

**Athena Linborn: **I didn't know it was another cliff hanger! Well, I just thought that...well, it wasn't as bad as the other one, right? Oh well, hope it wasn't too bad. Any who...I cannot believe you still feel sorry for him. I mean, for goodness' sake! Then again, I suppose even he has his loyal followers. Well, I'm glad that some people read between the lines, because I do hate to leave things so blunt and out in the open. Sorry, I did spend a lot of time job hunting, and it did take me a long time to update...hope you enjoy any way!

The Painted Past

Chapter 8

**Never underestimate a man's ability **

xoxox

She was awake—she knew she was awake. Her eyes had slid open to find a close view of the table. And yet something—not slumber, for that possessed a comforting embrace—something kept a firm grasp of her mind.

The darkness swam through her, slicing through as though she were no more than air. A silence cloaked them with a dead solidity, making her gentle heartbeats melt away into nothingness. The confines of flesh, of bone and of blood meant nothing here. Here she was simply a lost soul, sliding through one lifeless void to the next empty blackness.

"I saved you," she heard him whisper, the words little more than tendrils of desperation.

Her eyes, blankly taking in the view of the kitchen, also saw a strangely familiar place, made suddenly foreign by the alienating shadows. It felt as if she was home, yet the home she had returned to had changed horribly in its futile effort to remain timeless...Sometimes, a sliver of light would hover briefly, letting her glimpse the high ceiling and crumbling walls, completely unrelated to the Black house. Her eyes, dull and deadened, strained to see what that was, just what exactly held her conscious prisoner...but failed. In this place, she sensed that all hopes eventually failed.

"I saved you."

She said nothing, distantly disturbed by his speech. Couldn't he see that words were worthless here? This was a place of nowhere, a place of finality. No action caused a result; no thought made a difference. It was a place to...to exist without any purpose—though, that was a paradox, wasn't it? She could feel herself vaguely, numbness slipping pleasantly through her thoughts. Then, those thoughts, those damn, troubling thoughts, would soon become detached, and then separated, floating away in the blankness like dead leaves.

The words fell from one who fought against the rules. From one who refused to accept defeat. Damn it. Why couldn't he accept it?

"But you didn't want to be saved," came the embittered reply when she chose not to answer.

"You didn't want to be saved."

Hermione observed cool stillness of the kitchen around her, and closed her eyes once more, falling into slumber to escape this unnerving conversation.

xoxox

"All is right with the world," a tired, croaky voice awakened her, "for Hermione Granger still loves to read."

She peeked open one eye, and sat up straight at the sight of Professor Dumbledore sitting beside her.

He seemed as still as the house around them. Colourless, dull light filtered through the windows, giving the ancient and plain furniture a grey, lifeless look. In the complete silence, it felt as if the world, too exhausted to wake up just yet, had stopped for a moment, searching fruitlessly for rest.

Hermione didn't know why she sat so motionless, watching him as he watched her. What was she looking for? she wondered, and couldn't find the answer. Her eyes narrowed in insensible suspicion, and she couldn't shake the feeling of mistrust from her mind. Suddenly, without reason, she hated him. He had helped, she irrationally remembered, he had helped to trick her.

Dumbledore calmly pulled two lemon drops from his pocket and offered one to her. She shook her head.

"I saw the anger in your eyes, Miss Granger," he said, gently frank as always. "And while I did not intend to bring the subject up until you had gathered your wits, Draco has confessed to the fact of using a tainted boggart, in the form of me, to persuade you."

She didn't believe him. Why _should_ she? Of course the old man would use the convenient lie of a boggart to conceal his terrible role in Malfoy's trickery. For all she knew, Dumbledore was in cahoots with her husband all along and—

Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. "He didn't take any candy, did he?"

Hermione remembered the boggart's swift departure, and how the false professor had no interest in the bowl of sweets. How the artificial headmaster bore no immediate concern for her welfare. Funny how those things had been so easy to overlook when in Draco's arms.

Ashamed into silence, Hermione shook her head.

But the tight knot in her middle refused to loosen. In other days, the old days, she would have smiled brightly at the sight of her beloved mentor. But Hermione felt that if she smiled she would cry.

"I don't want you here," the sage wizard said unexpectedly, as was his way, "Far too depressing in my opinion. They should have consulted me before placing you."

"Why you?" she asked dully, closing the book. "Why not my parents?"

It felt like the wrong question to ask, for at once Dumbledore frowned like one who carried a heavy burden. Hermione wondered if _she_ was that burden. She wondered when, exactly, she had crossed the line from one of those who took care and solved problems, to becoming one of the problems that needed to be taken care of and solved?

And she hated it, because that was what she used to be good at. Bloody good at. She solved crises liked one solved algebraic equations, and now she was a lump of good-for-nothing.

"I'm sorry to tell you, Miss Granger, for the second time...that they have passed away. Don't you remember?"

She hated that question. She hated that question and even more, she hated the fact that she always answered in the same manner.

"No! I _don't_ remember, professor," she said bitterly, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Hermione was tired of crying, inwardly surprised that her body hadn't run out of liquids. "You should know that remembering isn't one of my strongest abilities." She let out a shuddering breath. "So don't trust me to recall anything important," she warned him, voice breaking, "because I'm a stupid, insensitive, gullible heartless girl who forgets her own parents' deaths.

"No," she refused savagely, thrusting his hands away, "I won't be comforted by meaningless hugs. Tell me, are your arms going to drive away my problems? Will they keep the big, bad world at bay? Don't silently promise me everything's going to be okay with your hugs when everything won't! I won't be comforted! I won't be tricked again! I—I..."

She didn't know. She didn't know what she wasn't going to be, what she had been, and what she was now. Besides intelligent. But what use was the fuel if one didn't know the direction?

Hermione trailed off into silence, and then glanced up at Dumbledore, who stood beside her chair. His twinkling eyes were not full of pity, thank god, but of patience. Yes. That was what she needed. Patience. Not pity, for she had received enough pity to suffocate all of England.

"I don't know what to do," she admitted, feeling ashamed to have raised her voice. At him, of all people. It wasn't his fault, but Dumbledore apologised for bearing bad news.

"The first thing," he said softly, bringing her to her feet. "Is getting you out of this hum drum abode." He accio-ed her luggage, and then, surprisingly, reached in his other sleeve to retrieve a chocolate frog. "Here. Clearly, you need this more than I do. Now, now, Miss Granger, no need to protest. I heard your stomach growling just before you awoke." Hermione took it gratefully.

He took her hand, and for a few seconds Hermione felt sick. It was only after they stood in an expansive, sunny flat that Hermione realised Dumbledore had apparated them to an unfamiliar location. And she was glad of that, strangely enough. Any place too familiar and she wouldn't have been able to bear it; she didn't know what she would have done if she saw some place she had known before, and observed so altered beyond her recognition...just as her strange waking dream had predicted.

It was a lovely flat, white walled and wooden floored, large and breezy, with the sitting area, kitchen, and dining room all connected by open, doorless entry ways. Hermione liked it immediately, strangely comforted by rooms' easy visibility. Nothing hidden, no dark corridors to explore, no hidden chambers to fear.

She intrepidly marched to one, large window. Cars and robe-less passerby's filled her view. "We're in London!"

"Yes, Hermione, it's a pleasant enough place to be."

From the light of the window, she saw something flash in her vision. Looking down, Hermione spied the golden band on her finger, strangely comforted by the sight of it. But it was not long before she remembered herself, and hastily slipped the offensive jewelry off. She tried, ineffectually, to ignore the bizarre nakedness she felt once the ring was in her pocket and off her finger.

Hermione turned away, and observed the old wizard emptying his sleeves and pockets on the kitchen table. Her eyebrows raised. Who knew the old man carried that many sweets?

"But we're in muggle London," she elaborated, drawing closer.

"Yes. This is a modest vacationing spot I like to visit once in a while." Her eyebrows raised higher, but she said nothing; of course quirky Headmaster Dumbledore would find a flat in the middle of muggles highly relaxing. "I felt your presence might intimidate the other wizards if I chose an inn at Diagon Alley. You are, after all, still a powerful witch."

Hermione smiled for the first time in many days. She knew the true reason; it was to avoid the sympathetic stares and unavoidable rumours that ran rampant. The Daily Prophet already had a field day with the arrest of Draco Malfoy. And both knew, without actually reading the newspaper, that false tales of Hermione Granger's role were being spun.

"I leave you here, though I hate to." Hermione was familiar with this speech, for Neville gave the subtle "You're too helpless and disoriented to be left alone" good bye when he was forced back into duty. Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"A man as old as I shouldn't go wandering about unattended," Dumbledore explained merrily, "or so some wizards claim. I may cause some trouble. It would help tremendously if you could guide me, but I'd rather not inconvenience you."

He disappeared before Hermione could laugh out right. The idea! Dumbledore needing a guide? Causing—well, yes, he _could_ cause trouble, but with good intentions.

Trouble with good intentions, her mind repeated experimentally. Was that excusable? Was that forgivable?

She could not find an answer.

It was okay, she decided, being away from the wizarding world, for she still lacked a wand. Neville promised to owl it to her as soon as they found it at Malfoy Manor. And she had wished him luck, for it was a massive place and there were many things awaiting a victim. And he had thanked her for her concern and that was that.

She was back and she was still cut off from her world. Hermione wondered how one could possibly have connections if one had been missing for so long, virtually dead and buried. What if they had already erased her from their address books? Or found a replacement for her empty chair at dinner parties?

Heartless, thoughtless, Hermione-less fools. They'd be sorry, she decided with displeasure. They'd be terribly sorry for ever letting her go.

Dumbledore should have warned her that she'd have visitors. It would have been the right and considerate thing to do. But perhaps he had been too preoccupied with other matters—reconstruction of Hogwarts, the necessary restocking of his pantry-size sleeves, and the rediscovery of long lost students—to warn her.

And that was what she needed when Fred Weasley burst through the door.

A warning.

Or a stiff drink.

Either way, she needed _something_.

"There's my good girl," he cried joyously, engulfing her with a hug. It was disconcerting to be wrapped in his arms for a number of reasons.

A: In the old days, the most she contact she had ever had with the boy was to box his ears or slap his hand way when he was doing something naughty—which was most of the time.

Two: The combination of Quidditch-built muscles and loving relief—a heartbreakingly familiar combination—made the process of respiration sadly difficult.

And C: He was supposed to be dead.

And she voiced C. After she muttered, "Dammit, A, two, C. You're supposed to be dead!"

Fred set her down and put a hand to her forehead. "Still haven't recovered mentally, have you old girl? It's me!" he began to shout needlessly. "It's Fred! Do you know who I am?"

She couldn't say yes and she couldn't say no. Once she managed an arm's length of distance between them, Hermione simply studied him in a disbelieving manner. Yet, after the disbelief had subsided, Hermione continued her study, unsure of what she was looking for, but still certain it was there, hidden. Fred cleared his throat, startling her out of her intense stare, and Hermione was forced to answer. "I've recovered you know. And I could say the same for you." To be breathing and hugging after death was not just a remarkable recovery; it was downright miraculous.

"Oh, I'm all right," Fred said easily, though a flicker of darkness passed over his eyes, suggesting the past was not yet done torturing him. Hermione privately wondered if, he too, suffered nightmares. "I stopped by Number Twelve first and found it empty, and though I was tempted to set that picture ablaze, mum suggested—ooh, look, candy."

And that was the end of his explanation. Yes, I'm alive, I'm come to visit you, look candy. "Mum said what?" she asked in exasperation.

"I don't know your mum," Fred said, mouth full.

"You can't, she's dead," Hermione replied before she fully understood her words. Fred choked on a jelly bean, and began to mumble apologies. And Hermione received them gracefully, because, for some odd reason, the words didn't sting her as sharply as they should have. It was a dull pain, as if the news was an old wound from which she could never recover from but had learned to accept. Dumbledore had said "for the second time."

Had she known then, somewhere underneath it all? Had some part of her mind knew and healed while she had forgotten? It was a comforting possibility; some special compartment of her mind had been saved, waiting to be opened.

"I think I remember Dad saying something like that," Fred said now, and moved to her with some apprehension. Hermione waved him away, and sat on the sofa, which was badly stuffed, and now caused her to sink into the fluid furniture. "'Course, it's hard to tell what that man is saying, for he's always muttering in the most annoyingly rushed way. Could barely get his opinion on things any more."

"How is he?" she asked, words delivered by automatic politeness.

"A bloody mess. I almost wish he'd get demoted; after all, we don't need all those laws passed now that the war is over, but he's still working over the messy paper work."

Hermione nodded, absorbing the words without pondering the meaning. She was chewing her lip, wondering how to approach the sensitive subject. She then decided direct was the most preferred path.

"Explain why you are alive." _And Ron isn't._

_Oh, dear, that was harsh_, she scolded herself as Fred joined in her drowning. How odd for someone, who was sort of "reborn" into the land of the living, to meet someone who was also resurrected, and wish that someone dead in place for someone else who had been dead longer than any of them.

Confusing, to say the least.

To say the most...not enough words in the world.

Fred frowned, as everybody seemed to be doing while in her presence. "Weren't you there? Let's see, I returned January fifth, two days before Finnigan's birthday, a week after Bill's broken arm...and nearly a week after your disappearance. No, I don't reckon you'd know about my comeback."

Disappearance. _Disappearance?_ It wasn't as if she left the face of the earth! It wasn't as if she had her name crossed out on the List of Existence!

Fred's fist reached out to chuck her chin, and if not for the silent ruminating, she would have bit his hand for his misplaced condescension.

"I understand you know," he said softly. Much too softly to be joking. "But don't worry. You'll stumble into a new flow soon enough."

"New?" she echoed, her throat strangely parched as she thought of the word. Hermione didn't like the sound of that. Not at all. "Not old?"

"Oh no," he sighed dismally, with a strange smile, "the old things we knew are gone. They were gone the moment we went away. But it's comforting, in my mind at least—"

"Your warped mind in which one man's embarrassment is another's profit?"

"Yes, in that mind, it's comforting that tomorrow is new for everybody." The Weasley suddenly found himself balancing on the knife's edge of philosophical sentimentality, and quickly learned he did not enjoy the view. Fred swam his way off the cushions and stood before her triumphantly. "We were bloody brilliant. _George_ was just brilliant. And then we died." She almost laughed at his tone, speaking of demise as one would annoyingly lament gum under one's shoe. "Er well, they thought we died."

"I was one of them," Hermione confessed, all mirth ebbing, staring earnestly into his eyes. She realised she was one of those people who crossed out the twins in the cold, careless fashion she had condemned just minutes before. "I thought you were, Fred, and I'm sorry."

He understood her meaning instantly, and both were gratified to have somebody to share this with. "It's all right, little girl.," he assured her with an irksome pat on her head. "I'm at peace with it." He sank to sit on the coffee table across from her. "I apologise as well then. Because I thought you were gone for good after the fifth month. Why is that the expression? Gone for good. We'll make a new one, Hermione. I thought you were gone for bad."

"Yes," she decided after some hesitation. "I thought you were gone for bad. And it was bad, Fred, after the First Battle."

"Ah, yes, the Unforgivable Battle."

"The what?"

"Silly bint, the Unforgivable Battle, named so for two reasons. It was the most public account of the largest amount of illegal spells usage in a long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long, long—"

"Fred!"

"Very long time. Ever recorded really. Also, downright damnable, deplorable, horrible—"

"You only know so many words containing three syllables, Fred."

"Terrible thing to do, attacking a school of children. But not so bad, I suppose, as attacking a school of innocent fish." Only he laughed at his little joke. "And so, the first battle was named the Unforgivable Battle, which was a both a victory and defeat to the dark wizards, for they killed so many but didn't win the castle."

Hermione sat in deep thought, which gave Fred suitable time to eat some of the melting sweets in his hand. Yes, she remembered, there were so many illegal spells cast that day...some of which she had never even heard of, let alone felt. And...

"And the Ministry immediately sent owls," she recalled aloud, growing excited with the return of the memory. "Sent owls regarding the prohibited spells, and we used those owls in addition to ours to call for help."

"Did they?" Fred laughed, delighted. "So then something good came out of their stupidity, I suppose."

"You were brilliant. It was awful losing you and George...I don't know how we managed, without you two."

Unused to praise—for he was more at home with censures—Fred shrugged with a blush. "But you did, from what I've heard. You managed quite well. You won yourselves some awards and honours."

"I don't know where they are."

"We sold our memorial plaques, George and I. Mum, of course, wouldn't want to keep them."

"Who on earth would want to buy them? They're morbid."

"Colin Creevey. Rather odd, isn't he?"

"Very. So you died...?"

"Oh, yes. Volde-bugger-mort wanted to keep some of Harry's friends for some mad, twisted, diabolical—"

"I never knew you to be one for adjectives, Fred."

"Don't interrupt, for I was finished after diabolical. Any way, the bastard had a plan, but I think the plan included an alive Ron, and, seeing the red hair, that idiotic Eater took us. I suppose having evil eyes does something to one's vision."

Hermione had flinched at the name of her loved one, so carelessly bandied about, and Fred pretended not to notice.

"And then the bastard thought, 'All right, I'll settle for this two for one deal,' and...and..." Fred ran his hand through his hair and grimaced. "And afterwards, they learned we weren't quite right for whatever the hell they planned, and proceeded to try and kill us. It was towards the end, when the good wizards were becoming stronger and stronger; and where we were being held, they grew sloppier and sloppier. Very lucky, we were, that the change of guards was delayed over a minor quibble—for they did that a lot, Hermione. Quibble."

Hermione ached to ask what was before "afterwards," but, obviously, Fred did not want to say. He did not sport any visible scars, but Hermione knew that whatever happened left permanent marks on his mind.

"And?"

"We're writing a book, and to tell you would ruin the mystery."

"Don't joke."

"I'm not joking."

"You hate writing."

"I hate work. Writing is not work when one is writing about himself."

"Shouldn't it be 'oneself'?"

"So the upstart is questioning the methods of the soon-to-be published author?"

"Fred, please, indulge me. How is it that you escaped—and _where_ were you?" If she had known, even if it had been the smallest of leads, she would have led a mission to save them.

"Durmstrang. We originally thought we were in the dungeons, because we tried to dig our way up, and found ourselves in another room. Very strange class rooms, over there, Hermione. What we consider scary and dark they find normal enough to teach students in. Creepy wankers." Hermione cleared her throat and Fred focused on the original story. "We ran far away enough from the grounds to apparate to the Burrow, where Percy was getting a midnight snack. He thought we had come back to haunt him."

"I wager he was relieved to see you alive."

"What? No, we played along with the whole haunting idea until mum woke up in the morning. Percy was terrified terrifically."

"Fred, you didn't!"

"Hermione we did!" he retorted, mocking her scandalized tone. "Well I think it very self important of the prat," Fred said reasonably. "Really, the idea that me and George—"

"George and I."

"No, you weren't there, don't be silly. Sure you're not mentally ill? All right, all right, no need to get violent. Any way, the idea that _George and I_ would overcome the metaphysical boundaries between life and death just to haunt annoying, big headed _Percy_? His ego needed to be deflated a bit, and we were the perfect phantoms for the task. Best way of coming home, I think."

"Do you know, I think I'm glad you two weren't present through the war?" Hermione spoke candidly, somehow understanding that Fred could take it. Instead of bolting up right, offended, the boy merely cocked his head in interest. "I don't know what I'd do if your sense of humour had been lost or killed sometime during the year."

"Shame, really, considering I could have been tremendous help at the Battle of Waste."

"The Battle of What?"

"The Battle of Waste, fifth battle of the Dark Year. Named that because of the loss of very promising wizards, on both sides, who were lost to something as stupid as war. Fleur died in that one, I think." Fred shook his head at the waste of it all, suddenly seeming much older than anybody Hermione knew. "So promising. Krum, too. Damn, they were all talented."

Hermione observed him, noting the faultless sobriety on his face. "Have they decided on names already, rather than numerical order?"

Fred nodded.

"But so soon?"

"It was not soon; it's been seven months. Time you understand that. Seven months, Hermione Granger, and I think—oh, here comes mum."

The plump red haired woman appeared just Hermione burst into a perfect fit of sobs. If not for her sudden attack of anguish, Hermione would have wondered at the revolving door of characters, so ridiculous yet comforting.

But, fact was, she could not wonder. She could not smile and greet them. She could not sit quietly. All Hermione—capable, resourceful Hermione—could do was weep uncontrollably.

Seven months. Seven months and everything she knew—even the battles she had fought in—had changed without her consent or her knowledge. Just how the hell were things going to right themselves? Just how the hell, she demanded silently while the tears flowed unstoppably, was she going to endure?

"Fred Weasley what on earth have you done?" Mrs. Weasley thundered, running through the door. Ginny entered after her, and shut it discreetly. "Bad enough to be eating and sitting on furniture not for sitting, and then you make the girl cry!"

Fred, who looked as shocked as shocked could be, immediately raised his arms in surrender, and backed away from the botched reunion. Her son muttered some panicked words of defense, mostly about how he didn't know he had done anything offensive, and Mrs. Weasley dismissed them entirely. Fred, who was ninety nine percent certain he was not the cause of Miss Granger's tears, said out of irritation:

"If you would just _listen_, mum, instead of annoyingly screeching all the bleedin' time—"

"What did you just say to me?" Mrs. Weasley in a tone that could not be described save for screeching. "Did you just call me annoying? Did you just say I screeched? You do not know the meaning of screeching, my dear boy, but you will—"

"Did I say screech? No," Fred laughed nervously, "no, you must have misheard me mum. I said...anoyum scriteth." Even Fred frowned confusedly at his pitiful save. Mrs. Weasley muttered the words under her breath, wondering the exact meaning. "Old English, mum," Fred offered gallantly, shooting a dark look to Hermione. He had a tiny feeling the girl staged the waterworks, just to get him in trouble.

"Oh the poor dear," Mrs. Weasley murmured now, with an armful of crying girl. "Ginny, prepare some tea. There, there, it's all right. We'll just have a cup of tea—"

"But a cup of tea won't fix everything," Hermione lashed out, with shocking vehemence. Mrs. Weasley had never abided by that tone from her children—though Percy used it often enough when he was younger—but she decided Hermione was allowed to use it considering her ordeal. "Nothing will!" she continued in a hateful growl, "I've been gone for seven months—"

"And it might have been longer," Mrs. Weasley reminded gently. In a strong contrast, the woman's voice was so soft and comforting that Hermione was instantly cooled from whatever simmering heights she had reached. Her frame, which had been shaking with rage, now stiffened and relaxed, crumpling into a tired, small girl. "Think, Hermione, you might still be trapped—"

"But what if I wanted to be trapped?" she sniffled now, not caring if she shocked them; and she had. "At least I knew what was happening then. Now...! Now, I just don't know what's going on!"

Mrs. Weasley recovered from Hermione's abnormal display of anguish. This was her third reunion with a long lost, thought-dead child, and each time she was surprised by their ways of adjustment. So now, she was no longer surprised at being surprised. She hugged the girl again, petted her hair, and whispered nonsensical things that mothers were required to say when the problem was just too large to deal with.

For it was just what Hermione needed. A not very helpful, but well meaning, mother.

"Fred? Go to George at St. Mungo's. He mentioned something about Lockhart, and who knows what kind of mischief he's cooked up." She presented it as a situation that needed to be stopped; he saw it as an opportunity to be taken and left eagerly. Mrs. Weasley told Hermione, "Bill's managed to break his other arm. Honestly, I don't know how boys do it, especially at his age."

Hermione did not care in the least if Bill Weasley managed to break every bone in his body, but chose wisely to keep that to herself.

"He nicked a biscuit right out of Charlie's hand," Ginny said as she tried to find a suitable tea pot in the bare kitchen.

"And, somehow, 'in the course of events,' he broke his arm," Mrs. Weasley finished with a rather puzzled look herself. Hermione momentarily felt rather sorry for Molly Weasley and her band of irrationally violent boys.

Hermione left the comfort of her second mother's arms, and wiped at her eyes tiredly. "I hate crying," she said quietly. "So exhausting."

"Yes," Ginny said, sitting beside her, so that Hermione had two walls of comfort on both sides. "But you deserve to cry, Hermione. You need a good long cry."

"If I don't know what I need, I don't think you should know." It wasn't said out of spite, nor exhaustion, nor hunger—which she still had. It was simply said quietly. Ginny nodded. Hermione remembered that she once likened Ginny to a bubbling and fiery dawn, so eager and determined was the Weasley in her accomplishments. Now, after everything, she was more of a sunset, still strong, yet calmer and more sedate with its mission.

With the inexplicable habit she had recently acquired, she watched them with acute attention, not caring for their discomfort or their words. But the study was cut short, for whatever her mind mysteriously sought was not present in either of the females.

"I missed you so much," Hermione said softly. "You too, of course, Mrs. Weasley...but Ginny, I dreamt of you."

"Did you? What did I do? Was I brave?" Silly question, for Ginny was always brave.

"You were waspish. You snapped at Draco, and I was sick."

"If it had been reality, I would have done more than snap at Malfoy."

Draco. Malfoy. What was she to call him? Mrs. Weasley excused herself to prepare the tea that Ginny neglected.

"He did a number on you, didn't he?" Ginny said now bitterly.

Hermione felt offense rising in her, but swallowed it. She could not have a bias when listening to the truth, even if it incriminated the man she had learned to love. "What happened, Ginny? I don't remember any of it...parts of it, but not all. I feel as if I've been to see a film, only in blurry and unsatisfactory clips."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand the metaphor."

"I'll explain it later...just tell me. Was it a dream, or a memory?"

"I dunno, I didn't see your dream. But...where is the beginning? I want to tell you, but I want to start at the beginning. Oh, you wouldn't know would you? I'll just decide myself what you should know."

Hermione loved her for the question. Ginny instantly knew, "she wouldn't know," and didn't bother to remind her of her sub par memory.

"You and I were going to fly from the Burrow to Hogwarts, to visit Hagrid. But there was a storm, and it made us nervous. Very weird, that rain—"

"But it's England, Ginny."

"Yes, but...it appeared so suddenly. Oh well, I expect we'll learn everything soon enough. Any way, we decided to fly far above it, but...it grew. Please don't laugh at me, Hermione, Charlie has, but I swear it did. So we continued to rise until, finally, it grew so cold we had little choice but to fly under, for you said we couldn't risk flying through and getting electrocuted. But, until that time, we hadn't noticed it—"

"You're beginning to fragment, Ginny, dear," Mrs. Weasley remarked lightly as she returned with a tray of cups and saucers, and Hermione loved her all over again. She caught herself from hugging, of course, because really, she felt she had been bursting with too much emotion as it was.

"Yes, sorry. We hadn't noticed it, but we had managed to come over the Forest. I hadn't minded, because I knew it fell in Malfoy's jurisdiction, and I had always believed Draco had a nice arse—"

"Ginny!" That was Mrs. Weasley, of course, because Hermione silently agreed and wouldn't have rebuked the girl.

"Nice bum," she amended. Mrs. Weasley shook her head.

"That's not the point. The point is my baby girl should not go around judging other men's...you know, and then speaking of them like a nice chop at the butcher's."

"Fine," Ginny sighed, and smiled apologetically at Hermione. "I always admired Draco's great personality—"

"Now you're just mocking me," Mrs. Weasley accused with a smile, and Ginny laughed. Hermione guessed this was where Ron learned to be difficult.

"And you were suspicious because you said the Dark Forest had defense mechanisms one had to pass to even break the perimeter. And that, if one was to fly over it, something or someone would stop him for questioning or death. But it hadn't happened, and you didn't like the feeling of it. So, we made a run for it as quickly as we could, because Hagrid had some new baby animal, and then—"

"You're going to end up with a run on sentence," Mrs. Weasley protested. Hermione wondered if the woman was difficult on purpose, to lighten the darkness of the tale. And it was working, for instead of feeling the inevitable anger of the story, Hermione found herself giggling as mother and daughter quibbled over the interruptions of the former and the grammar of the latter.

"Any way," Ginny sighed, "we found ourselves faced with a dragon. A whole family, really—"

"Ridiculous!" Hermione cut her off now. "A whole family of dragons in the middle of the Forest?"

"I'm going to explain that later," Ginny said with an impatient frown. "We were chased, finding shelter behind a bit of rock and surprise, surprise. Malfoy was waiting. The dragons had been illusions. He hadn't counted on me being with you, though, for when I awoke he was most irritated with my presence. He had you, all right, but now he wasn't quite sure what to do with me."

"That bastard," Mrs. Weasley said vehemently, unexpectedly. Hermione stared, mouth agape, at the woman until Ginny spoke.

"It's all right, she's just quoting. We haven't said his name at the Burrow for months now—whenever someone says 'Bastard,' we just assume Malfoy."

"Oh."

"And, you know, despite being grabbed, bound, knocked unconscious, and then rudely reawakened, I wasn't so angry at him?"

"Why not?"

"Because of what happened in January. You see, the day after New Year's—"

"She knows, Ginny, she had visited the Manor to comfort him," Mrs. Weasley interrupted. Hermione was taken aback by the news, but it was the daughter who spoke up for her.

"No she doesn't, mother. Malfoy made sure that whatever she used to know she doesn't now," Ginny replied solemnly, taking Hermione's hand for comfort. With a half hearted smile, Hermione squeezed the fingers with affection. "And I could do without the interruptions. You see, the day after New Year's, a group of wizards finally found Mrs. Malfoy."

Hermione realised with irritation that she automatically associated the name with herself. Ginny did not notice.

"They found her on the edge—literally. About to take a plunge at Dover, into the ocean. And they pleaded, they reasoned, tried anything in the world—"

"What about _spells_?" Hermione asked in exasperation.

"They said she claimed she would jump at the sight of any wand. But it was stupid to keep the promise, for she jumped any way. Even after they reminded her about Draco, about how he would be left alone in the world—"

"And she didn't care," Mrs. Weasley finished quietly. Perhaps it was the poor light of dusk, or her emotional imagination, but Hermione thought she spied tears glittering in the older woman's eyes. "I don't understand how she wouldn't care. He was her son, for Merlin's sake. Her Drakkie—it just didn't make sense to me."

"Nor to him," Ginny added, though with considerably less compassion. "He immediately took leave of absence at work, though, according to the rules, it wasn't allowed. Dad let him, because, well, _because_. And the worst part of that was..." Here, Hermione thought the worst part would have been the death. "...was that Draco didn't learn about it from the reports. There was a leak and the Daily Prophet printed it. He had to learn about it from the papers, just as everybody else did. Horrible institution—father had it shut down for a few weeks as penalty."

"Can you do that?" Hermione asked in wonder.

"Arthur did," Mrs. Weasley sighed, with what seemed to be tired annoyance. "He's earned himself a lot authority at the Ministry." The words were said with less pride than one would have expected.

"So, of course, the man was fairly depressed. And then, the very next day, Seamus found the body of Blaise Zabini in muggle London; possibly the only friend left. Granted, he had been in St. Mungo's criminal ward; catatonic, you know, so he wasn't much comfort. But still. I imagine one death at the beginning of the year is ominous enough. But two in two days...everybody would have understood if he wanted to shut himself away for the rest of the twelve months. And you had visited him and made things bearable, though I can't imagine how. But you did. It wasn't so much that you two had been close friends; everybody in his and then your departments heard just how much you disliked each other's faults...but well, you were the only one out of all the Hogwarts students who was still on speaking terms with him. Most of the Slytherin House, of course, were in prison, and none of the rest of the community was willing to forget the fact that he spent the early part of the Year with the enemy. Still, out of pity or duty, you went to check on his mourning state. Very charitable of you, Hermione."

"Yes, it was very kind," Mrs. Weasley put in.

"So...when I awoke, I wasn't immediately angry. I thought there had been some misunderstanding, some sort of mistake. And then—well, he didn't say anything, really, but I had the feeling that he didn't like me being present. I learned he had taken us to his home—really bizarre place to go, I thought, considering Hogwarts was a few feet away. But I didn't question it, because, obviously, the deaths had addled his brain.

"He led me to your room, which was disturbingly enough, _his_ room, as well. I _know_," Ginny said now, in a scandalous tone young women used when gossiping, at the sight of Hermione's perturbed expression. "You were sick. From the fall, he said, but really, it looked more than a simple fall. You were pale, and still and looked..."

_Dead_, Hermione thought. But Ginny refused to say it. Funny how she could face a dozen Death Eaters without blinking an eye, but was afraid to say one word.

"Under the weather," Ginny finally spat out, and Hermione checked her laughter caused by the familiar phrase. "As if somebody had hexed you, over a long period of time. He asked me to help nurse you back to health—an insult if I ever heard one; as if he really needed to _ask_.

"As you healed from that stupendously traumatic 'fall,' I asked the normal questions. Where were we, why were we here, how long had we been here, how had he been doing, could his home get any creepier—and you know? Wasn't very receptive, that one. Downright rude at times. But I excused that, being the sweet, understanding girl I am. Because he had been mentally ill to begin with, he was probably off his rocker by now.

"But I could not excuse, under any circumstances, what I overheard. He called me a carrot-top brat, and he wondered what the hell he should do with me."

"He said that to your face?" Hermione asked, rather surprised that her pretend-husband would be so tactless.

"No, of course not. Being the nutter that he is, Draco was muttering to himself in the library and I was listening at the doors. Luckily, he left to check up on you—did that a lot, the obsessive maniac—and I crept in to see a notice on his desk, stating that Malfoy Manor would be disconnected from the Floo Network within the next day. By Malfoy's _request_. Of course, _of course_, we had to leave. And we almost did—if not for the fact that Draco found us. Or rather, me, carrying an unconscious you, trying like hell to steal away on a stolen broom. And I'm sorry, Hermione, truly I am! He tore you away just after I took off, and, before I could come back, there was another blasted storm. It was ridiculous, how conveniently it came when I needed to find my way back. I'll say one thing about the psychopathic bastard—Malfoy has very good timing."

And Hermione could not disagree.

She could not do much of anything. The story was so unfamiliar, so alien...something out of tabloid magazines, not real life. Who would plan so deviously, and so intricately, for the company of one girl who was not worth half the trouble? And worse, what kind of friend would harm others in the name of love?

_Sweet Jesus, could it even be called love? Dedicated insanity was more like it._

_Of course it's love_, a sentimental part of her mind spoke up timidly. _It's always been love._

_Damn it._

Ginny was nearing the end of her tale. "It turns out we hadn't been at the Manor, or at least the one in England. He has several properties including, of all the bloody convenient things, a floating island. Can you believe that? We're just lucky there's isn't an outer space Malfoy Manor, orbiting the moon! Any way, those islands really should be made illegal, or at least kept track of, considering the sort of shifty characters who own them."

Hermione remembered their day in the garden, and her comment of hearing the ocean. At the time, it had seemed so trivial, and she silently cursed herself for her forgetful stupidity.

"And they will be now, monitored, I mean," Mrs. Weasley added. The windows outside were dark with night. "Arthur is seeing to that."

But she had only been discovered a few days ago! How on earth could Mr. Weasley have accomplished so much?

"So when I finally returned to the Burrow, and we went back to get you—it wasn't there. I had left it at the Channel, and then suddenly it was gone. Did you hear where it was when they rescued you? Near Ireland. Right under our noses. Tell you what, when that one schemes, he schemes thoroughly."

"He was a Slytherin, after all," Mrs. Weasley commented.

"And we've spent the past months searching for you ever since. The Daily Prophet printed a wonderful biography on you, though I didn't like the bit about you being Harry's girlfriend. Did you really rescue stray animals as a child?"

"No."

"Pity, but I thought it was a bit much. Trelawny was a waste of space during the investigation, and it was very difficult to get a hold of Firenze, and that moron from Beauxbatons kept claiming clouds and shi—"

"Ginny," Mrs. Weasley warned.

"—in his vision. But I didn't think Malfoy'd be strong enough to hide you on a psychic plane."

But it showed just how little any of them, including the love of his life, knew of him. He was stronger than anybody could have imagined.

Hermione heaved a mournful sigh, incredibly fatigued by the day's events. She had visited three places in the course of twelve hours—Number Twelve, the real London, and, the most important place of all, the Past.

"Who knows?" Mrs. Weasley said now. "That one has acquired an unnerving amount of power since the end of the Year. Now come and eat your supper."

"But what of the others? Aren't they going to come?"

"Not tonight, dear. Everybody's in a flurry tonight. There's a massive mess to sort out at the office. Come and eat."

Hermione knew, although Mrs. Weasley never mentioned it, that the mess was because of her. No doubt closing the case, taking her off the list of Missing Persons, etc. She hated being a problem, without knowing what she could do to alleviate the trouble. Besides that, she only had part of the answer.

The rest would have to come straight from the source.

Hermione cringed at the thought. Where had she been, this time a few days before? Cosy, safe, warm...not alienated, bewildered, and scared.

Still, while Ginny and Mrs. Weasley discussed the progress of Ginny's newest muggle hobby—"No, mum, rock climbing does not involve monkey-like rocks"—she couldn't help but think that it was so much better _to know_ the truth, rather than to cower in cosy falseness.

xoxox

**to underestimate a woman.**

**V.I. Warshawski**


	9. Wishes for Clothes

The Painted Past

Chapter 9

**If I can reach the stars,  
Pull one down for you,  
Shine it on my heart**

xoxox

Her hair was unmanageable. Perhaps it was the London air. Or maybe, it missed Draco's touches.

Whatever the reason, her mane was so unruly even Mrs. Weasley remarked as they waited in the lift, "I do wish we had time to prepare ourselves properly, but the Ministry's pushing for a speedy trial."

Hermione walked silently, momentarily thinking it unfair to ask a wife to testify against her husband...before she remembered herself.

The magical judicial system was just that. Magical. While she believed it a punishably short amount of time to hold trial, many others believed it had taken too long. They arrived at the Ministry in due time. Like all others, they endured the necessary rigors of entering.

Ginny had told the lift-telephone booth voice that their purpose was to "prosecute the bloody hell out of that bastard," and disembodied voice had politely responded.

And Hermione had no wand to be checked so that sped up the process.

It was hard not to notice to the stares of awestruck wizards and witches as she passed, head held high. It was difficult to remain deaf to their whispers. It was terrible.

But it was a pleasant picnic compared to the actual trial.

Hermione considered it rather barbaric, their mode of justice, with no proper platform for the testimonies and witnesses. And no approachable bench where one could speak with the judge. All fifty of them; she shouldn't have been surprised, of course, to see that Draco was to face a full trial. And then, that dreadful, solitary chair, where the suspect was more like a studied specimen. Yes, she decided, the court was definitely something muggles did better.

Her heart gave an unexpected lurch at the sight of Draco's entrance. His hands were locked, bound magically, but everything else was quite natural to him. His arrogant swagger, his cool ease as he moved, his icy gaze that swept about the room as if he owned it...all present and accounted for.

And suddenly, it didn't take as long to find what she had searched for in others. Her eyes latched onto it immediately. She had been looking for the duplicity, the betrayal in all others, that had been well hidden in Draco. No wonder she hadn't found it in the Weasley family. All the time, she had been looking for that heartlessness that belonged solely to the manipulative bastard who sat in the chair.

Hermione was called forth to stand beside him, and waited to be questioned. She shook her head at the offer of a chair; that would have forced her closer to Draco, and she was not aware of how the proximity would affect her. Against her will, her head darted to her left as Draco took a seat.

He smiled wanly. No arrogance, no coldness, no hint of superiority. His lips were curved kindly, wordlessly calling for her response. Abruptly, it mattered very little what they said of Suspect Draco Lucius Malfoy and his crimes; it mattered very little what Witness Hermione Jane Granger was to say against him. All that mattered was the fact that her tiny fear, that awful, gnawing idea that Draco had become broken somehow, while they were separated, was killed with breathtaking relief.

She smiled back, against her will. But her soul was threaded to his, no matter how much she denied it outwardly. And if his happiness called for her happiness, then her heart would comply without protest. Her lips curved wider at the thought—she was just happy she had her mind to stop her heart's silly compliance.

It was noticed. It was whispered about by the council before them. It was written down.

Draco spoke before a single judge could open his or her mouth. His voice rang in the chamber with confident clarity, and unashamed smoothness.

"Yes, I am guilty of all charges. Except the twenty fifth, I think. I never transfigured another wizard's pelican."

And Hermione bit her lip, choking back the laughter as she choked back the tears. Also noticed. Also remembered.

"I fell in love with Hermione Granger a few months before the Dark Year. Such ardor, of course, was hindered by my enlistment in the Dark Lord army, but was renewed once more when I realised my side was to be the defeated." There were a few scoffs and mutters at this shameless reference to his disloyal past. Draco ignored them with cutting disdain. "Because she did not want to even consider the idea of loving me back, I called for drastic measures after the Year had drawn to a close."

Drastic, Hermione repeated inwardly, her tiny amusement shattering abruptly. Too weak a word.

Her heart, she was very certain, stopped for a few seconds. Part of her wished—as crazy and impossible as it was—that he was still innocent. That somehow this was an enormous mistake, and that he would walk free...walk out as her husband.

If Draco knew her insane desire, Hermione reflected, he would not have continued to confess so readily.

"Firstly, I released the house elves, for they were bound to serve only Malfoys, and it proved difficult to have her marry me. I presented Hagrid with a new creature, having overheard Hermione's promise to visit whenever a new animal arrived. On the appropriate day, I asked Dumbledore if I should check the status of the Forest's recovery from the War. He was reluctant, but allowed me to do so. With this opportunity, I deactivated all defenses without consultation—though I suspect that is Dumbledore's jurisdiction, and he may punish me whenever you are done."

Hermione waited for the hatred to boil within her, but found herself blank on the emotional plane. She could not hate Draco, she learned; so who was she to hate Dumbledore for a simple mistake?

"I must speak now of your seventh charge, 'Unlawful Precipitation Interference.' Now, according to the charge, I simply conjured the storm, which is untrue. I borrowed it, from Bath. And then I sent it back after I was done with it." Hermione, as well as the panel, stared at him with thinly veiled surprise. The suspect spoke so casually of a deed that required Boy-Who-Lived abilities. Draco did not notice their reaction. "I sent an illusion of dragons—"

"Who was your accomplice?' one wizard asked in a nasal tone. Draco looked faintly displeased for being interrupted, reminding more than one occupant of Lucius Malfoy. The resemblance in manners did not help his case.

"There was no other. I acted alone. Now, after captur—"

"But to rearrange weather to such precision, and to conjure a convincing illusion of dragons, with such realism," one young witch began with a tone of wonder, "requires a great deal of power, concentration, and skill. If you did have an accomplice, Malfoy, it would be wise to—"

Draco, who was unabashedly annoyed with another interruption, now cut in himself. "Yes, ma'am. You've no idea how talented I am." With those words, Draco added a feral, daring smile, that sent the witch into a flattered blush. Hermione would have buckled at the knees herself if not for the unexpected anger; anger that he should smile at any one like that.

"I was thankful for Weasley's escape, for I did not want to harm her in any way. You'll have to downgrade that abduction charge, by the way, to the third degree. Second degree requires five days and Ginerva Weasley was at my home for four. I assume the extra day she was missing was due to her poor navigation skills."

Although he had not looked at her since entering, Hermione was irritated to see him smile, as if he knew she focused only on him. And that she would be annoyed with his ridicule of her friend.

"Before you ask, I had been planning to put her in the dungeons. And yes, I kept Mione for seven months. And yes, I performed illegal spells on her. Now you'll want which spells, correct?"

And the panel fidgeted uncomfortably, undoubtedly peeved to be deprived of their right to interrogate.

"Just one in January. Then the same, modified in February. And the same, modified and edited in March. And the same spell during April, except tinkered with, of course. May...well, you understand. I learned of the spell out of Gilderoy Lockhart's journal when I went to visit Zabini—I imagine that's a separate trial?"

They did not answer. They glared, they stared sternly, and basically did an impressive variety of things with their eyes that related to disapproval. But they did not answer.

"Yes, for this one's for the events leading to kidnaping, and I'll need a different panel for homicide. But, since they are related, I had killed Zabini because he found out I was responsible for his leg incident, and was ready to tell Mione about my affection for her. And he found out—this part is entirely my fault—"

Words that caused a bit of an uproar. Which part, exactly, they wanted to know, wasn't his fault?

He ignored the reaction. "He discovered my crush because of my involvement with the leg incident. See, I knew he was up for Head Boy, but to have him and Hermione sharing quarters..." Draco grimaced, showing some real emotion. "I didn't trust him. Full of dishonourable intentions, that one."

"And you believed you were of better mettle?" one wizard demanded, voicing all the derision that Hermione felt herself.

"Well, _yes_. Just because I liked to study her face whenever the opportunity arose did not mean I was ready to rape her when she fell asleep," Draco replied reasonably, staring at the man with cold, hard eyes. Admirably, the wizard, far too ancient to be intimidated by the Malfoy, merely sniffed and bade him to continue. "Getting more to the point," Draco sighed, "After the war, Zabini was ready to ruin everything and owl Hermione. Which I didn't like, for the only reason she remained in contact with me was that we were purely platonic. Ever tasted unrequited love?"

No answer, though one could distinctly hear a judge snort with cynicism.

"I had to kill him, for he would have ruined the plan—yes there was a plan, throw conspiracy in the mix as well. No, don't interrupt, ma'am, I was about to explain why the spell—_Volo fiat_ being the name of the process—needed to be modified. At first, I had obliviated too much, erasing a good part of the battles. Second time I had done too little...each time it had never been enough, or it had been too much. Too strong, to weak, too detailed, too vague...there was never the perfect degree to which I could repair—or damage, whatever term you prefer—Hermione's mind. Until the seventh time. And, even then, she awoke skeptical."

"And how were they modified?" asked that one, forgettable witch.

"It was difficult, for at first only the chant was changed. _Volo fiat_ became _Vellum tempus fiat_, to _Mentiar fiat_, to _Vellum memoriae_, modified becoming _Tempus mentiar nuncine_...which I think I stuck to. The rest of the changes came from how much blood I took from her, and where I drew it. By the final procedure, I learned I had to mix my own blood in the potion, so that my will could successfully persuade her heart. It was...bad, to say the least, to repeat the incantation and brew daily—or, in my case, nightly—and had negative side effects on my mind and body. Hermione, I'm sure, remembers my fatigue. The concoction, upon being dropped into her veins, also prevented her scars from healing properly."

A strange silence settled into the room as he confessed the last words. It appeared as if Draco Malfoy was regretting his actions...as if he was sorry for hurting another while he realised his ambitions. His sudden silence, his haunted eyes, his displeased mouth...they simply did not fit with the Draco Malfoy the rest of the world knew and hated. Villains were not allowed to regret, for they had dug their own graves.

She did, of course, remember for she was Hermione Granger and bound to notice and remember any anomalies. But that did not matter now. Hermione, forgetting her aloofness, faced him squarely. He did not turn to her, only stiffening under her withering gaze. "You hurt me?" she asked quietly, helpless to stop the hurt creeping into her voice.

"Do not address the suspect, Miss Granger," requested one, large, stalwart wizard. Hermione faced the panel again, and she spied some kindness in that wizard's spectacled eyes.

"Yes sir," she murmured, staring down at her hands so that none could see the tears.

He, Draco, had hurt her. Willingly. He loved her, and yet he was willing to put her health in jeopardy in order to possess her.

Hermione frowned, not sure how to process that information, not sure if believing in that theory would prove disloyal to the man she loved.

"You've left one crime off," Draco added confidently. "Hopefully, this voluntary admission will reduce my sentence." With the darkness and his cold façade, it was difficult to discern whether or not he was joking. "I did not pay the bill at Altworth's, for the readjustment of the Malfoy pensieve. I had it rigged, you see, so that Hermione would only see the pleasant areas of our past."

Hermione was impressed and chilled by his thoroughness. How long, she wondered, would it have taken to find out the truth with a man so meticulous?

"Now," the most stalwart wizard began briskly, "please outline the seven months."

"Beg your pardon?" Draco asked nonchalantly, as though he hadn't really been attending. Hermione frowned, and recognised the underlying worry in his tone.

"The seven months. What happened? Why and how did she find out?"

Now both the suspect and the victim stared up at the questioning judge with furrowed brows. To Hermione, his tone was strange, and not as pitying as it was a few minutes ago. To Draco, it was quite clear what the not-so-subtle idiot was trying to imply.

"She was not an accessory," Draco ground out, furious enough to lose his slick veneer. "Nor did she ever become one."

"Seven times," a witch repeated, "with a poorly cast spell. Surely there were slip ups, and even then, she stayed long enough to be hexed again."

The fact was merciless, and strangely...not entirely untrue.

"My fault entirely," Draco asserted, growing agitated. "No one should condemn for her inability to escape. If anything, one should admire how clever she was for finding out."

"All right then," the nasal wizard said, trying another tactic, "tell us of the seven different occasions she solved the mystery and yet stayed."

Draco sent the man a flinty gaze, and his lips tightened with fiery anger. "I believe the victim has some right to privacy," he bit out coldly.

"It is the right of the court—"

"And it is her to right to keep personal matters personal!" he shouted.

Hermione was abruptly filled with dread, so lead heavy she thought she would choke. Anything this mightily protected must be terrible to hear. And hear it they would, of that she was certain. A few more minutes of arguing, glaring, and entirely inappropriate threats from Draco later, it was decided the methods of discovery were to be listed.

"Oh bloody fucking hell," Draco muttered. "Fine. The first month, she found a red hair only two days after I performed the spell. It was either admitting Ginny was present—which reminded her of Ron, and the insensibility of the lie I fed her—or have her thinking I was having an affair."

Draco hesitated, chewing over his next choice of words.

"The second?" one witch prompted.

"I'm getting to it," he snarled. "The second time...the second time, she found out two and a half weeks after the spell."

"How?" Draco regarded them with mutinous eyes under hooded lids. "Miss Granger, do you remember?"

Bewildered by the address, Hermione only shook her head dumbly.

"Because we slept together," Draco stated baldly. "And it was her first time, and I hadn't known that." His voice was far from remorseful; in fact, he sounded as irate as any husband, being forced to discuss sexual details of his wife. "If I had, I wouldn't have said we were already married."

"And?"

"And what, you fucking moron? And, I hurt her." Draco's words now shook with tangible fury. "And so, she knew. And so, she found out. Any thing else, perverts?"

"Miss Granger." Again, both suspect and victim were startled by the shift of attention. "Is that true?"

Hermione could only part her lips in surprise. Her mind, already shocked by the recent admissions, scrambled to string a coherent sentence. "I...uh...recall something... I had a dream, I think, about that—"

"Consisting of?"

"Let her finish," Draco snapped.

"Let me fight my own battles," she snapped in turn. After a calming breath, Hermione faced the panel again. "It consisted of..." she bit her lip "Well, it consisted of the last part. Of me remembering, and saying it hurt. I thought it was all a dream, before."

"And you're certain," the witch needled.

"That I dreamt it? Yes, of course."

"No," she began delicately, with Hermione regarded as false discomfort. "That it hurt."

Although it had been said before, she could not help but say it. "I beg your pardon?"

"Did you lose your virginity that night, Hermione Granger, or was that a simple story to deny your guilt in the crime?"

Hermione studied the panel, half shocked, half disgusted. Instead of rising to the bait, as Draco did verbally beside her, she merely cocked her head and gave a speculative smile. "And if I chose to stay with him," she challenged coolly, "how is it a crime?"

"To aid in the murder and kidnaping—" They were obviously tenacious to the belief that Malfoy could not have accomplished his deeds without some magical assistance. And it was well known how brilliant Hermione Granger was in accomplishing the unthinkable.

"No, no," Hermione dismissed airily, "I mean afterwards. Say I was kidnaped, but tricked into loving him. Why does my voluntary forgiveness render unlawfulness?"

"To fake one's death," the witch began.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Draco murmured out the corner of his mouth. She ignored him.

"You assumed I was dead. I never claimed anything."

"So you admit it," the ancient wizard said triumphantly, evidently glad that the trial would come to a close.

Hermione shook her head, with a shrug. It was the principle of the matter, not the truth. "No. It was a hypothetical situation. Yes, I was virgin until Draco's...well, until Draco."

"Despite your two year relationship with your fiancé?"

"Yes, despite that."

"You never engaged in relations with Ronald Weasley."

"No. Any other ways you can phrase this?" Because one witch was ready to answer her joking query, Hermione quickly interrupted. "Look, I never slept with him, all right? Besides that, this isn't relevant to the case now, is it? The case is Draco's crimes, not my love life."

"You address him familiarly."

"Yes."

"Do you love him?"

And there was the knife waiting in the dark, unsheathed and painful. It was a question she knew would pop up, and had yet to formulate an answer.

"Third way," she spoke succinctly. Protests arose for her evasion, but Hermione refused to answer. "Third time, Malfoy, get on with it."

"Right." If not for the situation, Hermione would have caught the faint tinge of amusement in his tone. "Third time, Zabini's blasted owl—which, I thought I had injured enough so that no message could be given—finally delivered the posthumous letter, and I killed it after it attacked me. Of course she was suspicious. Fourth time, it was the first time she noticed her missing cat. When I flew to retrieve it, the damn animal hated me. And, trust Hermione to take the cat's instinct over her growing feelings."

Hermione scoffed, and Draco smiled wider.

"The fifth was nearly perfect. She awoke, easily believed my lies, and we had the perfect honeymoon. My mistake was an after hours picnic. You see, I had fibbed about the exact month, so that she would not send one of those Weasleys a birthday present, but she noticed the stars. I think she actually used the Astronomy Tower for astronomy. The timing was wrong, and I didn't have a good reason to lie about the months."

His lengthy confession seemed to satisfy them. "Right," said one, "moving on—"

"Wait," Hermione said, desperately, "what of the sixth?"

The panel frowned at her. She frowned back.

"You didn't tell her?" one asked Draco.

"Well, we didn't exactly have ample time to discuss it."

One judge, on the far left, reached within his robes, and levitated brick to her slowly. Vaguely, Hermione wondered if she was being physically punished for her outburst. The crude block, roughly hewn except for one smooth, marble veined side, stopped mere inches from her face.

"You feigned ignorance long enough to leave yourself a clue," Draco told her dully.

Hermione squinted into the darkness, and spied faint scratches into the stone. It was the same sort of message she found in the book, with the same date.

"Taken from the fireplace," the witch informed her. "Of the library." Which explained the mess, Hermione remembered, that they later cleaned up.

The fireplace, Hermione repeated to herself, growing annoyed. She just wished that if she went through the trouble of leaving clues, she would have left them in an easier place. As she berated her past selves, the others had moved on, asking about time and place, this detail and that spell. Draco remembered it all with perfect clarity, from whom he had bought the ingredients to where he destroyed or buried the evidence.

They interrogated her as well, though with noticeably less censure and kinder looks. In a word, pity. Finally, after an eternity, they reached the last question.

"All those who find Draco Malfoy guilty of the charges..." The speaking wizard appeared understandably depressed and indecisive, for he did not want to undergo the rigmarole of repeating them once more. Draco saved him from such a tiring dilemma.

"You cannot charge me," he said, very breaking off in an arrogant laugh. "You couldn't possibly."

One witch, in the third row, stood up angrily, her face a huge splotch of angry red. "I assure you, Mr. Malfoy, we can and we could, and we will!"

"But without evidence?" he asked, lips curled in a sneer, voice carried with staggering confidence.

"Evidence," another wizard repeated, sputtering with disbelief, "Were you present in the last hour? You and Miss Granger have provided ample—"

"Witnesses' testimonies are affected by emotion. I could have merely given you a diluted version, in an attempt to lessen my villainous character in my Hermione's eyes."

Hermione swerved to the suspect, eyes wide with alarm, heart thumping erratically. What did this mean? Had he done something terrible, so horrific, that he did not want to repeat it in her presence? What did this mean?

Nothing. Draco's chilling gaze slid to meet hers in the briefest of moments; it was all a bluff, she instinctively knew. It was all merely a bluff, to buy time.

"The veri—"

"If you are referring to the potion which would force me, quite rudely, I might add, to tell you the truth, may I remind you that the Ministry outlawed such abhorrent tactics early last year?"

"It was not," the ancient said roundly, "prohibited by the use of the Ministry on the enemy; only the marked Death Eaters were no longer to lawfully concoct it."

"But you forget the loophole, sir," Draco pointed out pleasantly. Only he was nowhere near as cheerful as his tone implied. By great contrast, his cold eyes were sharpening by the second, like some beast ready to lunge for the kill. "The loophole in the law. It is nothing to be ashamed of, as these mistakes can happen when a bill is enacted as quickly as that one was—in a panic, I presume, because of us.

"In all your wordiness and drivel, you accidentally stated that it would be unlawful to treat one of one's own to such a potion. Was that an effort to protect the Secret Keepers? How quaint. To butcher the law in order to prevent butchering of one's own."

Hermione hoped, no, prayed that Draco knew what he was doing. For it seemed to her that the anger rose in palpable waves from the gamut before them, ready to crush Draco with its red, hot intensity. She understood, of course. How dare he, Draco Malfoy, infamous turncoat—not once, but twice—how dare he taunt them with their past fears and mistakes?

"Hermione Granger," said one witch with a pinched expression, greatly ignoring the issue that Draco had just settled, "has given enough testimony to deal with the inconsistencies of your own..."

_Tsk, tsk, tsk_ came from Draco's pitying mouth. Hermione was ready to strike him herself. Just who the hell did he think he was, she wanted to know, to tease them like this? And just what the hell was he playing at?

"Oh, ma'am," he said now, tone dripping with false remorse. "Is that the only leg you have to stand on? I'll be the first to say that Hermione Granger is of brilliant mind and admirable reasoning. But," he added, leaning forward in a cruel, confiding manner, "can it not also be said that she is of questionable memory?"

His words fell like a dead weight in all their stomachs. All fifty wizards observed him with horror, mouths open in aghast or muttering in desperate doubt.

Draco leaned back, extremely satisfied with himself. It would not be the first time that a Malfoy twisted the Ministry to his fashion.

Hermione herself stood in abject turmoil. Her mind, useless as it was, executed some rapid attempts to find loopholes within his loopholes, to outsmart him as she had all her enemies before him...

But damn it all.

He was right.

"I don't care," the ancient, leathery wizard said abruptly, voice so sharp it cut the thickening silence immediately. "If you're trying to weasel your way out of this, Malfoy, you've got another—"

"I am not denying a thing sir," Draco rejoined, laughably wounded by the accusation. "I am merely suggesting that the Ministry wait for the wizards to finish searching my manor, and then proceed with the fullest amount of evidence. After all, sir, should you convict me now, I may be forced to appeal on account of evidence found later or, naturally, a mistrial.

"I do hate to burden you like this," he continued, upon seeing their murderous and dismal expressions, "but one must act in full accordance to the laws given to us by our government—in respect of the Ministry. I know you were all looking forward to a conviction today, but really, these proceedings are a bit redundant now, don't you think?"

He made no motions to rise, but one witch ordered, voice shrill, "I'll be damned if I let you walk freely, young man."

"Oh, naturally," he agreed, with a shrug. "But, you can't send me to that joke of a prison, Azkaban, can you? For that place, ineffectual as it is, is now for _convicted_ criminals, and no verdict has been made concerning me."

Hermione's head was pounding with all her former husband's logic. Good lord, she thought, minorly dizzy with the turn of events. Good lord, he was a bloody genius when it came to getting away with murder.

"Fine," the leading wizard spat. "You will be kept, however, in the Ministry's custody, until we have gathered enough evidence on both the kidnaping and the homicide. Any arguments for that, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Why, none whatsoever, sir."

"Then the trial is adjourned."

Draco had been ready to stand, thinking it was all over, when the witch posed the last demand. She spoke hesitantly yet quickly, as if the words tripped out of her mouth unwillingly.

"Do you regret it?"

Even her fellow panel had been fidgeting, eager to leave, until she spoke.

Draco leaned back in his seat, seemingly defeated by the four words.

"Do you regret it?" It was Hermione who asked now, tensed up so tightly she was sure she'd explode if he didn't answer soon. It was strange yet vital that she asked it, here, surrounded by the darkness, as he sat in the unflinching light.

Draco did not bother with sighs, nor grimaces, nor save-face smirks. The suspect simply glanced at the witch, and then Hermione. His grey eyes were unapologetic.

"No," he answered softly and shook his head with a fond smile. "I don't. She loves me, and that's what I wanted."

"How could you possibly believe that the end justifies the means?" Hermione demanded as he rose, and was escorted out. All the others left as well, but Hermione could only stand in shock. "How could you not be sorry?"

Draco did not turn to face her. His steps resounded with finality as he left her farther and farther behind. The door opened, the rectangular shaft of life slashing through the inky blackness.

"You were happy for a while, weren't you?"

xoxox

"How dare he?" she muttered heatedly, stomping on the cobblestones as if they were the bane of her life. "How dare he assume so much?"

Mrs. Weasley and Ginny said nothing as they walked through the murky fog. They had been shocked into silence when she told them of Draco's fate. Then, for the past half hour, they did not speak of nothing else except for the burning shame of technicalities. To apparate, of course, would have been the best course of action, but Hermione had not the concentration to do so. Floo powder had no effect on her muggle flat, and the Weasleys, with overwhelming protectiveness, decided to walk her home.

She had been going on in the same manner for some time, and no amount of comforting would stop her. Her quick, impatient steps emphasized her belligerent attitude.

Hermione was aware of the nervous glances exchanged behind her back, and was irrationally irritated with them. Couldn't they understand? Why weren't they as irate as she was?

"I have to go back," Hermione announced and paused in her tracks. Her decision was so abrupt both women behind her stumbled against her.

"It's not wise," Mrs. Weasley declared decidedly, "not when you're so emotional."

Hermione was in no mood to argue. "I made an appointment. I have to go."

"But we just left," Ginny exclaimed in surprise.

Hermione bit back her acerbic response to the obvious statement. Instead she promised that she would visit them at the Burrow as soon as she felt up to it, hoping that those empty words were enough.

As insensible as it was to leave when she had an appointment only an hour later, she had had a good and selfish reason. With the Weasleys half way to the flat, they had no reasonable objection of finishing the journey while she returned to the Ministry alone. And it was, she decided as her steely glare drove them away, something she had to do alone.

An anxious amount of time later, Hermione waited outside the criminal holding cell in the lower bowels of the Ministry. Despite the censuring looks of the officials who passed by, she did not allow her aplomb to crumble. She stared coolly into each critical gaze, and raised her chin defiantly at the wizards who clearly, but silently, questioned her motives and loyalty concerning Draco Malfoy. When the guard finally opened the plain, stone door, Hermione stepped through the threshold with a mask of indifference.

Jail, she decided, was definitely something wizards did better. Azkaban disregarded, of course. It was an indulgently large room, with a decent full sized bed, an undecorated set of table and chairs, an equally plain dresser complete with mirror, and a screened off toilet. It was better furnished and cleaner than some London flats, Hermione noticed wryly.

Draco sat at one of the chairs, facing her as she entered. A kind of doomed serenity rolled off of him in palpable waves, and she was vaguely reminded of a man condemned to a Kiss. Something stirred and ached within her heart, but she quelled it. Draco Malfoy would have plenty of pity, she was certain, but not from her.

He gestured for her to sit, and she ignored the empty chair. Instead she stood in the centre, unyielding and unforgiving. Draco conceded to her recent persistence, and tiredly stood to meet her.

For a few, breathless seconds, she stared into his eyes, where a grey sea churned and swirled with a multitude of emotions. But not guilt. He felt everything from love to desperation, she remembered. But not guilt.

The slap against his left cheek was so hard he stumbled on his own feet for a few steps. Her arm and her palm stung with the force. The print on his pale skin was livid and beautiful.

Without a hint of injury, he turned to her again. "I suppose I deser—"

Hermione slapped him again. Different hand, different cheek, different direction of stumbling. But the same, burning anger.

"Am I not allowed to speak?" he demanded, this time rubbing his injured face to show the pain. Hermione felt strangely satisfied to see him hurt.

"Not if you're not sorry," she hissed. With a sad shake of her head, she stepped closer. "You bastard," she whispered, so that she would not roar. "You_ bastard!_ How the hell could you not be sorry?"

"No," he responded, just as heated. "Because I'm happy I finally made you see the truth."

"The truth," she repeated wildly. "The _truth_? It's a trick, Draco. What we had was based on lies. And clever spells."

"But you love me don't you?" he demanded, triumphantly. "You could go on and on about what falsehoods I created. But you can't deny the one true thing. That you love me just as much."

"Oh I wouldn't go that far," Hermione told him icily. Draco hesitated in replying, for her words, just as she predicted, hurt him. "I would say," she continued spitefully, "that I love you more than you love me."

In different tones and with a different expression, he might have been overjoyed to hear her say that. But the romantic phrase did nothing now but make him wary.

"For instance," Hermione sneered, "I would have never manipulated and hurt you for my own benefit. I wouldn't have fed you lies for a good fuck. You hurt me, Draco, and yet you claim that you did it for love."

"I did! You were so damn stubborn—you didn't even see—God damn it, Hermione, you wouldn't even _consider_ me."

"Obviously I had a good reason! Maybe I didn't want to love you because you're a selfish, psychotic bastard." Hermione stepped closer, jabbing her finger painfully into his chest. "How do you even know I'm still the Hermione you loved? Those memories were a part of me, and made me who I was."

"Unlike others," he replied with a scowl, "I don't doubt my love."

"Your version of love is sick," she spat, and finally sat at the table. Draco followed suit, and glared at her with equal intensity. Though he did not ask for any elaboration, Hermione viciously explained, "If you truly loved me, you would have thought of the consequences. Of course you'd be caught. And of course I'd be implicated. Did you not even think of these things?"

"Of course I did. But..."

"But what?" she pushed savagely. "But you figured it was all worth it? That our love would stand the test of time, and trials? Did you really think that it would last?"

"Shout all you want," he invited in a deadly soft tone. "But I won't be sorry. If you think that I enjoyed tricking you—that I enjoyed hurting you, myself, and others in the process—you're wrong. I hated the necessity. But I had to. I wanted you to love me."

"Answer my questions, Malfoy," she ordered imperiously.

He shrugged with false nonchalance, and crossed his arms. "Yes, yes, and no. Respectively."

"Don't be so fucking smart, Malfoy," Hermione snarled, patience running thin. "Do you think that all this—"she waved a hand over him demonstratively, "will save you? Do you think answering wittily, and defying valiantly will keep you safe?"

"Safe from what, Hermione," he scoffed incredulously, "The UK Ministry of Magic no longer uses the death penalty, nor has there been the use of the Kiss in months—"

"I'm sure there'll be an exception," she cut in savagely. "Not only are your crimes deplorable by themselves—assault by amputation, conspiracy, homicide, and then abduction—"

"Plus the use of a dozen illegal spells," he mentioned flatly.

"But the fact that the crimes were committed by somebody who was on the good side," she emphasized seriously, anger draining away, "makes them monumental. If some nobody Death Eater had done them, that one would have been dealt the normal punishments. But you aren't a nobody, Draco. These aren't just a crimes that hurt me, you see. I'm the fucking little poster child of good wizard martyrdom. I've got bloody wizards who I don't even _know_ giving me protective and pitying looks. There was voluntary search party conducted globally for me, by wizards whom I've never met. And to them, you _were_ and are _again_ the enemy. What you did was a betrayal to our entire world."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning the Ministry can be twice as harsh, and nobody will say a word."

"Nobody? Not even you?" Draco had lost his devil may care tone, and now stared at her with something like anxiety.

Hermione, who had leaned forward during her caveat, now settled against the hard back of her chair, and crossed her arms as well. "It wouldn't make a difference if I spoke up."

"But will you?" He made no pretense now, and openly frowned at her.

"Granted," she sighed tiredly, rubbing the bridge of her nose, "the fact that Zabini's unpleasant escapades have come to light may make your murder of him less terrible. Surprisingly enough, nobody missed him."

"Hermione, will you be sorry to see me locked up?"

"And Ginny, because she is a kind sweet girl, apparently has no plans to charge you for her three day stay. Conspiracy for abduction gets two years at most—"

"Hermione, please—"

"So the majority of your punishment relies upon my decision."

Draco studied her, taken aback by the coldness in her tone. Hermione stared back unflinchingly. "Do your worst then," he said colourlessly.

It was not the reaction she expected. Her brow furrowed slightly, for she had enjoyed his unabashed fear and panic, cruel as it was. "Pardon?"

"You have the power keep me locked up for the rest of my life. Go ahead."

"You're not being reasonable—"

"Am I not?" he challenged. "For what have I left? My estates have been seized by the government. I have no friends, nor pets. Nobody will miss me."

"Oh, drown yourself in self pity, why don't you?"

"It isn't self pity. It's fact. I haven't a single reason to keep my freedom."

Draco's eyes bored into her own, demanding the unasked question. Hermione bit her lip, unable to decide herself. She wondered what good it would do if he were to stay miraculously free. She wondered what good it would do if he were confined. Who, indeed, would miss him?

At least one person, she knew without question.

"I would miss you," she admitted coldly, "but most likely I'll survive the pain."

Draco seemingly crumpled. The defeated Malfoy relaxed from his rigid posture, slumped forward, and drooped his head in his hands. "Please leave," he requested quietly. He would have appeared hopelessly pathetic if not for his surprisingly strong, adamant tone. He was not pitiful—no, no Draco Malfoy was never _that_—but movingly tired. As if his abruptly slack posture had nothing to do with her, but everything to do with the fact that he had had an extremely bad day.

"Honestly, Draco—"

"I don't want you here," he said in a muffled voice. Hermione heard his hidden meaning. He didn't want her to see him like this. "Please go."

She didn't know why she wanted to hurt him so much. Of course there were the obvious reasons, but none of them held any weight with her. A part of her strangely wanted to see him broken and helpless.

Yet another part wanted none of that. It understood the motivation. Hermione loved him, despite what he had done to her, and she did not want him harmed in any way.

She understood her love, and she understood justice. Vaguely, she was aware her priorities had shifted in order since the War began.

Draco lifted his head and said evenly, "Obviously, I am of no concern to you. Please leave."

Hermione remained in her chair, and relaxed as well. Forlornly, she leaned forward and copied his position, chin on folded hands. "You've no right to be mad at me, you know," she said softly. Her hand itched to reach forward and stroke his hair, but she suppressed the ridiculous urge.

"I'm not going to waste my time persuading you," he retorted violently. An ironic statement. Seven months wasted, then.

She shook her head. "I don't mean for you to try and sway my decision."

"Did I say try?" he sneered. Naturally, she understood his implication, and was oddly not insulted by it. Truth be told, if Draco did want to persuade her, he would have very little difficulty.

"Don't be difficult," she rebuked.

"I'm being realistic," he shot back.

"How so? You could build a strong defense—with some incredible truth twisting—and get a minimal sentence. Instead, you say you'll give up and let the system swallow you whole."

"It would be fair, wouldn't it? I'd get everything I deserve."

"Wrong. You'd get more. And don't spout words of fairness, Draco. You'll choke."

"I understand all right? I'm a terrible person. Point taken. You've come and said your piece. And unless you feel the absurd need to draw me a picture, you can put that door just behind you to good purpose."

"Draco—"

"It's feeling neglected," he continued morosely. "It's saying, 'Look at me, somebody needs to walk through me.' What a poor, pitiful door. Soon it will be suicidal—"

"You're being—"

"And will commit portal-suicide. Which, of course, nullifies and voids this so-called 'prison,' for one can't be held in confinement by a doorless room—"

"Enough!" she cut in roughly. "For god's sake, Draco!"

"Yes," he laughed mirthlessly, "he has forsaken me, hasn't he?"

"There's nobody to blame for this but yourself," she reprimanded. "If you had just _waited_...things might have ended differently."

"I waited!" he contradicted. "I waited forever for you to get over him—"

"During a war, Draco. Do you think I had time to think and heal during the battles? If you had just waited afterwards...when things had settled...and done things the normal way..." Her lips twisted bitterly. "But there's no use, is there? You had to have things your way at your times. So now we're in this mess. You off to who knows where, and me left alone."

"What? Do you think there'll be a harem awaiting me when they put me behind bars?"

"When I said alone, I meant without you," she snapped. "You should have thought, damn it. You should have thought about what would happen to me once you were caught. I'm homeless, Draco. People regard me as some sort of walking corpse. I can't even read without thinking of you. I can't even meet with the Weasleys or Dumbledore without suspecting them of some ulterior motive. You should have thought before you acted."

Throughout her speech, Hermione kept her volume even, but had no control over her eyes. She could not leash the wistful softening, nor the pleading sadness that shined through. Draco met her gaze, and sat seemingly untouched. Then, without warning:

"I'm scared," he confessed in a whisper. Hermione paused, unsure of her expected reaction; this, for all her time with him, she had never seen.

"So am I," she whispered back as the knob began to turn.

Draco shook his head, gaining some of his old confidence, a mirthless smile playing on his lips. "It won't work that way, love. One of us has to be unafraid."

A knock on the door shattered the stillness. Hermione hated whoever stood on the other side, for ruining the tiny illusion of peace they had built. Draco, with raw and unveiled emotion, reached forward and gripped her hand tightly as she arose.

The door knob had rotated and stopped and Hermione, tremulous with conflicting feelings, dashed away in order to intercept it. Nobody except Hermione and Draco had the right to witness this bizarre moment of tenderness in the midst of righteous anger. Without a good bye nor a meaningful look, she opened the door and rushed through to slam it behind her.

The wizard who had opened it did not have time to register her actions, and therefore was still standing very close when she appeared. Their bodies touched awkwardly, and he stepped back with the distinct aura of discomfort. Hermione distractedly glanced at his face.

He was very talented, especially during the war. She had not seen all, but heard of all his military feats. She had heard praise of his magical abilities from all walks of life. But, most importantly, she had practically grown up with him.

"Harry."

xoxox

**So you could see the truth:**

**That this love I have inside  
Is everything it seems. **

**Eric Clapton, If I could change the world**


	10. People Change

**Bit of a disclaimer...I always assumed apparating and disapparating just took a whole lot of concentration and one's body. Like when Peter Pan and believers brought Tinkerbell back to life. I kinda never pictured a wand was included in the whole process. I mean, well, yeah...that's it...**

**Kou Shun'u**: As you've been nice enough to give me nice long reviews for all chapters, I feel privileged enough to give you proper responses...:clears throat...realizes stupidity of that when typing, and then stops clearing throat:

Chapter 1: Okay, I can't accept "lengthy things of greatness." Why, you may wonder. Well, A, because I have a naturally immature mind, and will (and have, I'm sorry to say) think of a lewd joke. I apologize. And then I giggle in my head. And, B, lengthy things of greatness applies to really, really, really great fanfics. Like those fabulous ones that just boggle me into humility! Mine isn't it. It's just mild experimentation that will most likely end in disappointment. You have been warned. I realize that a year is a short time for a war, but this is mostly written out of cowardice. I don't know war, I've never known war, and hopefully I will never know war. I'm not about to half ass a decade long struggle with my juvenile descriptions.

Chapter 2: I didn't know it was possible to write an amnesia fic with strong perception, but I'm pleasantly surprised to know I succeeded. I really don't know what to say when somebody points out the less obvious aspects of the fic (i.e. interactions, conscious-subconscious, pain-hope...) other than to say thanks for paying so much attention! And I was so so so so happy to know that somebody else found that "light coming from the sun" bit funny. Everybody's always talking about how mostly dark the whole thing is, and I was hoping that a little nonsense here and there wouldn't be smothered by the seriousness. And, in this chappie, we will see somebody's reaction to Hermione's apparent attachment...and it's safe to say it won't be pretty...

Chapter 3: I had to walk a fine line between Draco's honesty and his ambition to keep things hidden. To speak the truth of certain things would, obviously, keep Hermione sort of guarded. But to lie just to please her...it also put Draco a little out of character. He'll lie, yes, but not so much to swallow his dignity and feign camaraderie with the fallen hero.

Chapter 4: If there's anything I enjoy writing more than angst (and responses to reviewers) it's Ron Hermione moments. I was hoping to get a strong contrast between the absolute guileless tone of the past to the here and now—sort of a subconscious foreshadowing, if one was to trust one's instincts and totally ignore Draco's charm. As for categorization, I was thinking of angst, but I decided to hold off, as I don't know whether or not excessive happiness is in the future (highly unlikely of me, but one can always hope)

Chapter 5: I know; the pensieve! I've often thought about that in amnesia fics. I've always thought, yeah, amnesia may have repressed those memories but they're still there. They're still available! I just wanted to cover all my bases when I mentioned that, but now we know how useless that might have been. And I'm glad people enjoyed the Ron-Hermione moments without rolling their eyes. Draco-Hermione fics, I've noticed, tend to horribly cast Ron as the villain. Insensitive and emotionally clumsy he might be, but he is, no way, a villain. As for all the outrageously nice things you said about my work...thanks!

Chapter 6: The whole Neville story was another foreshadowing thing, really. I like him, but I wasn't going to include him until later. Then I realized I needed cushioning for the credibility of the spell, (a sorta priest discussing the poison in Romeo and Juliette copy cattish thing) and Neville, for all his timid bravery, was perfect. He is a Gryffindor, after all. Stellar? Now that's definitely a first...

Chapter 7: Was it bad that I laughed with "that's just wrong?" Bad or not, I still laughed. I can't help it. It just tells me I did an adequate job of making the reader identify with Hermione. Hermione believed Draco, so reader believes Draco. Hermione is shocked by Draco, so reader is shocked by Draco. Sorry for making your eyes watery...I'm always surprised when reviewers have that strong a reaction to my stories...

Chapter 8: If the story breaks people's hearts, I will do the most horribly irresponsible thing and blame Draco (who is, please don't notice, possessing a past and personality I gave him). What a total prat. Damn that ambition. Nothing to do with that author-ess and her silly plot twists! But, in all seriousness, I'm also glad that not half the Weasley children aren't dead. True, it would make for a more spacious Burrow, but the loss of company is horrible. I couldn't, with a good conscience, let the twins stay dead. They're too great for death, in my opinion.

Chapter 9 (finally, you're probably thinking): Maybe it's my not so subtle bias-ness, but I'll manage to not be in awe of Draco the Bastard Malfoy, thanks. Still, I'll reluctantly (very reluctantly) that it was very, very, very smart of him to cover his bases like that. From Dumbledore to the penseive, he was terribly clever. I sort of added all that stuff, not because I think highly of his intellect, but because I think highly of his determination. Draco is, in my opinion, the very epitome of Slytherin ambition. He would take all measures to get his way, and being meticulous was what the job called for. I'd like to point out, however, that the job also called for hurting Hermione, and that's why I'm not so eager to praise him.

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! Yes, I did leave clues every where. There were ten million clues in the past eight chapters. But, to be fair, I did write it so the reader eventually dismissed them. Only a dedicated Draco-hater would have found the clues and then keep them tenaciously throughout the fic. But I'm glad that somebody noticed them.

I am so glad that you enjoyed this fic enough to leave a detailed review for every chapter. Thanks again for all the comments and observations, and I hope my extremely long winded response didn't bore you.

**Moony2187: **I'm so glad that you liked it. It seems to be a favorite, though I can't imagine why... I actually feel a little guilty for using all the clichés, but then again, they just had to be called out. I've never heard of that one with the Neville plot! Maybe I haven't read enough fics yet. I'm glad the characterizations please you, but I hope you won't get used to the length of the chapters...I can't promise anything after all. I'm hoping that the characters, like Ron and Draco, would be recognizable but still changed. I don't like those fics where Ron acting like first year Ron or Draco acting like first year Draco. It's perfectly believable that by sixth or seventh year, they'd mature and change. Real life people do it all the time, after all. I'm hoping that you'll still write "great story" by the time the story's done and buried, but even I'm not sure about that. Thanks, though, for all the support!

**Word E. Smith**: I would kill for my real name to be that. "Hello Word!" that's something I could get used to hearing. Any way, striving for relevance, your review: So incredibly nice, I just may spontaneously combust. But, as that would result in an immediate halt of the fic, I'll stall that reaction.

I was waiting for ages for another Muse fan. They are, without a doubt, one of my absolute favorites! Okay, that's not really relevant either, is it?

But I'm glad I'm portraying Hermione so accurately. It's tricky business, writing a character piece when that character isn't the main one in canon. It's all right to understand Harry motivations, but Hermione motivations are harder to dissect.

I think I got them right because we're both virgos, me and Hermione. Rational enough explanation, if you ask me. And thank god for appreciation of dialogue. I'm pretty sure three quarters of this fic will be mostly conversation, so I'm relying on the quality of that instead of my flimsy plot. And to answer your question...yes. Yes. It is totally odd to love Draco. Hate him, Word E. Smith, hate him with everything you possess...or maybe you can stop listening to the rantings of a deranged lunatic writer and continue being accurate in your analysis.

Yes, he's vile and yes he's spoiled, and you're damn right he's crazy. Still, that was some kind of genius planning there. Sorta swaying towards the mad scientist sort of intelligence, but you can't deny respect where it's due, I suppose. I am so happy with your final few sentences. It's what I set out to do, after all. Prove that he can still be Draco but still be human. Harry and pity: only half right on those calls, and I mean the pity part. She's always been so capable and Draco, the ass, totally ruined that. But about Harry witnessing the exchange...hmmm...maybe I should have mentioned that the Ministry has sound proof jail cells? Totally should have mentioned that. Will berate myself excessively in the future. Also will slap wrists. Bad me. Bad bad me.

But thanks again, for everything you've written. Makes me feel like it hasn't hit the fan quite yet...though, when you're in this deep, how do dig yourself out, I'd like to know...psst, one thing about me... I tend to loosen far too many ends, and then have a helluva time getting them tied up in the final chapters. Hopefully I won't disappoint my readers. Thanks thank thanks!

**Ajaliebe: **Aw...shucks...must stop blushing... Thanks so so much for all the kind words! Well, pretty sure Draco wouldn't have minded a smooch or two, Hermione, apparently, wouldn't have cooperated. As great are those heat-of-the-moment, middle-of-debate kisses are in movies, they're kind of hard to credibly write. And, while I have come up with an unexpected turn or two, they're off in the distant, distant future. You've probably already foreseen the drivel in the next few chapters, so bear with me:0)

**Hells Angel**: Yes, pretty sure amazingly is a word, and I'm flattered you used it for my story. Couldn't help but smile at your review. I don't know if it's all entirely true (not that I'm calling you a liar. I'd never call a Hells Angle a liar! Heehee) because, considering the many twists I'm planning to write, pretty sure it won't end up "sweet." In fact, I can only hope the readers won't want to kill me for all the excess drama! Still, I know I haven't exactly made the "asap" deadline, but better late than never, I guess!

**Bo-Jay: **Wow! I so know somebody else named Bo Jay. He's my age and he goes...somewhere...I think he's my age...well, obviously, I haven't really kept track of him. You're now the only Bo-Jay I know. Congrats. Thanks for all the nice things (if I'm such a great writer, you'd think I'd have better words other than nice, huh?) you wrote, and I'm sorry I couldn't update soon enough!

**Mia-Fitzpatrick: **I hope I didn't sound ungrateful about all the compliments! I just...ah...they're...see what compliments do to me? Maybe it's my childhood that renders me unable to receive them. Yeah, let's blame that. It was, after all, during my childhood that I was...shorter. Hmm. Not _much_ of an explanation there...I could blame the nuns! They were mean...

Do you know what's totally retarded of me? Took me forever and a day to understand what LJ meant. Sad indication of an aging mind...

How does Draco manage to royally screw the judicial system with pinnace? I have absolutely no idea. But, hopefully, my study of him will be helpful if I ever manage to land in criminal trouble. You're right, about the conflicts, I mean. Instead of a plot driven piece, I like to a flexible framework for the plot, and then I just let the character motivation and interactions tell the story. Which is why, I suppose, the next few chapters will be totally boring!

And please interpret this next part in a flattering, non psychotic way...I TOTALLY LOVE YOU!

Perfect example of how, even though one loves Draco, one can realize he may not be the best person for Hermione. Not that my main goal is to make every Draco-lover into a Draco non lover or anything, but I like it when the readers realize that it is Hermione's interest I have at heart (why oh why do I speak of them like real people? Is it healthy? If not, don't tell me!) I admire Draco's ambition and cunning, but if those interfere with Hermione's happiness, I won't like him at all. Which is why, in canon, I don't like him the least little bit. Hermione's my favorite character, and, in my fanfic world, you just don't mess with my favorite character without a little pay back.

I was on pins and needles about the trial scene. There's just no handbook to the wizarding judicial system of the UK. Or, if there is, I haven't found it yet. Thanks for the reassurance. I don't like Ginny. There's isn't enough character there for me to like, I suppose. I took some liberties with her over all personality because, in my opinion, Rowling hasn't given much insight to her inner workings. Except she's a bit of a smart ass and as good as the twins with pranks!

I seem to have an affinity with evil cliffies. I'm reconciled to the fact now. I don't know how it happens when it happens, but it does, and I can't stop it (okay now I'm just being stupid.) But, I'm pretty, pretty, pretty sure that this chapter does not end with a cliffie. 99 percent, as a matter of fact. So there! Thanks for the great review!

**windkull: **Good lord, now I feel enormous pressure! But the good kind, I hope. I mean, I totally understand the whole reading-reviewing ratio you gave, so I kinda feel like I better give one helluva fanfic since it compelled you to review. :Faintly relives spelling bee...proceeds to faint: Thanks, though, for all the great things you said (I didn't know I wrote a powerful fic! I wasn't even aiming for powerful! I only hoping for somewhat significant!) Oh, windkull, how very, very foreshadowing of you. Harry and that whole new twist...it's what he does best. He is, after all, the Boy Who Lived and the Boy Who Brings Twists, as we all know.Thanks again! NYU...how I envy you...

**thepainter**: My response to your review...nuh-uh. And then you say, "Uh-huh." To which I wittily reply, "Nuh-uh." And then you, equally wittily, say, "Uh-huh." And then, summoning all my conversational strength, I answer, "Nuh-uh times infinity." And then I win.

Only because I don't know what the hell to do with compliments. Besides say thanks.

So thanks!

**Monkeystarz: **Were they really that good? Naw, you're just kidding. Okay, maybe not, so thanks for all the nice things you said about my fic. Blame moi? Geography project? Heavens protect my reviewers from such things as geography projects!

On a side note, I thoroughly enjoyed my last one, project, I mean. It was an island of my own creation, named Happy Island with, as all schools require at one point or another, a volcano. Just a suggestion in case that last one didn't work out! Or, you can submit my name to your teacher as the sole reason of failure, and we'll duke it out with pistols or swords at dawn. Teacher v. future teacher. Dun dun dun...

Oh why oh why do I babble like this? Surely it's a physical ailment...any way, thanks for the nice review!

**sugar n spice 552: **Seeing as there are no hidden negative nuances in "really really good" I'm as pleased as can be. Also very pleased that you will persevere through parental tyranny just to review both chapters! I can totally relate; in the past, I couldn't finish my writing when I wanted to because of a stupid thing called bed time. Yes, hooray for Harry. I like him very much, and, fortunately, Hermione does as well, otherwise we'd only see a paragraph of him getting shipped off to South America or something. Thanks again!

**cat: **Maybe I've got to start adding in my summary, "Draco and Hermione and Ron fic. Warning. Lack of reviews." That way, it'll soften the blow for generous people like you. Well, lack or surplus, I still like my reviews when I get them. As you can see, I was totally influenced by yours, and I've changed the summary (I'm never satisfied with them. I'll probably change it again before the story's done) Your review, other than influencing me, also made me laugh. I guess the one fault of FF Net (besides technical shit) is the lack of screening process. There is a lot of crap on the site, I'll admit that. It's very hard to find a Harry/OC fic with decent grammar and spelling...or even a decent plot line, for that matter. Thanks for the "well written" and "unique" bit. Don't know if those compliments will really apply by the end of the story, whatever that may be. And, I'm holding off posting it on a Ron/Hermione or Draco/Hermione site because I don't know how it will be. The thing is, I have no idea what a yahoo group entails, for all my years on the internet. I don't even know what a fan listing is, exactly. And, while I'm pleased by your confidence, I like the recognition here on crappy Ffnet just fine. I've got reviewers like you and Athena Linborn and onion layers and annie and oli and dozens of other people so it's all good! Thanks so much for all the encouragement! If I have any doubts of anything, I'll just go back and read reviews like yours and smile!

**magicalferret**: You know, before your review, I only knew of very few other people who said "woot." Now that lengthens the list to a grand total of two. Now this "oh dear God, let them stay together...!" business. I've got to warn you, magicalferret. You can't go around calling me God. It'll give me a messiah complex. It's not healthy for my already bloated ego. :0) All right, all right, in all seriousness, I'll tell you what I've told others. I can't promise you that. All I can promise is Hermione's happiness, because she's the character I care about for this fic. I hope that's enough for now! Thankye much for the review!

**Onion Layers**: Really? Chapter 9, your favorite chapter? And yet so many people have been Poor-ing this person and that person, and you love it? Ah well, I can't complain. I rather liked it too! And, while I'm not sure that the trial was supposed to be hilarious (in Draco's view point, I'm sure it was) but I guess "hilarious" is better than "ludicrous." Thanks for the review!

**Paul is dead**: Nooo...he isn't is he? I'm pretty sure that he isn't...though I've totally lost touch on the celebrity pulse back when the new kids left the block... Right, you're probably rolling your eyes and cursing my stupidity right now, so I'll leave the subject. Good and confusing. That seems to summarize the fic in general. As far as my characterization of Mrs. Weasley, I had very little to go on, except Ron's whole my mum always makes a cup of tea whenever anybody's upset thing. I find her more than annoying sometimes. And Draco's side of the argument...I'll tell you something...I had it written totally different. Draco was more of a soldier in the old version, ready to take what was due to him...except I didn't like it. Although Draco's totally accepting of what Hermione deals him, he doesn't take shit from anybody else, so I decided to go with the whole weaseling out of it angle. Whatever the punishment, I'm sure Draco will find a way out of it. And, about the court, I was going a lot on the trial Harry had, in the way that it was totally unfair. I guess I can't assume that ever wizarding trial is totally personal and prying, but then again, it is Draco Malfoy, so they would be a little less than absolutely judicial. I'm babbling now. I'll stop now. No wait, now. Okay. The end...oh and thanks for reviewing!

Delovely: And here I was thinking my last response to your review scared you away. What do you mean how creepy it was she left herself that note? Can't a girl's past self leave a note for her future self, warning her of her immediate danger without being creepy:Thinks a bit: Yeah, yeah, it was a little bit creepy... Almost everybody believed Dumbledore was there. Heeheehee...I love tricking readers...wait, did that confession just cost me a few of them? Just kidding! Totally hate tricking readers!

I would be a total liar if I didn't say I didn't enjoy writing the bitch slapping. Why? Because Draco's a bitch, and he totally need slapping. My only regret is that, during her stay/abduction at the castle, Hermione didn't work on her upper body strength, thus building up her biceps and triceps so that a certain smack of a certain ferret would be ever so painful...heehee, there's that evilness shining through again. I will cease and desist (redundant! Like Neville!) so you can go on to reading!

**Spawn32818**: Thanks so much for loving the chapter! Chapters, it is commonly known, have low self esteem issues, and regularly need to be told how much they are loved...wait, that's not true. I got them confused with cruppies. Well, considering how long it's taken me to update, and how you've been dying since the last chapter, you're dead. Good bye Spawn32818. You've been such a lovely reviewer. I'll always cherish the times we've spent together.

If you're not dead, bravo survival skills, and I hope you enjoy the following chapter so much you'll review and tell me whether I've screwed the fic up or not!

**Lisi**: I guess I could interpret that "intense" as a good intense. Thanks so much. I was hoping the fic went dark and fast paced enough without becoming too melodramatic. Your review totally reassured me of the fact. Intense and melodramatic can't coexist, can they? And I totally love multiple wows. Wows are like puppies. You can never have too many...unless you're allergic. Then try to stay away from puppies. Try kittens. They're cute...

I totally digressed, didn't I? Yes, I did. Here I go, undigressing...I can't answer the question of Draco and Hermione getting together because I don't know myself. It's up to the Hermione character I've written. If it seems likely at the end, then yes. If it seems unlikely, and the only reason she'd end up with Draco Malfoy is because he is Draco Malfoy, than no. :Shrugs: I haven't the faintest idea. And, never fear Lisi, if there's one thing I've vowed never to do, it's leave a story unfinished. I will always continue. It may take weeks, it may take months, it may even take a year (I do hope you're cringing as much as I am at the thought! A whole year! It's absurdly too long!) but I'll finish it! Thanks for such a nice review, and I hope I won't disappoint any of your expectations.

**Otakuannie**: Haven't had a tackle hug since I was young...maybe when I was fourteen years old? Any who, thanks for reviewing both chapters. Masochistic? Possibly. I've heard it used before against me, so I can only assume it's true. :0) Well, I had no idea they were civil to each other, and I had no idea I did it marvelously. Looking back, maybe Draco was civil and Hermione was slightly antagonistic (what a switch, huh?) Do you know, these plot twists cause so many violent reactions from you I'm thinking of tacking on a "The End" just to save your life! Then I realize that such a cop out would result in a suicide murder from you, and we can't have that at all! Thanks for the many compliments—though I have no idea what to do with them except store them away from the light of day so I won't die blushing—and thanks for noticing the cohesion of the plot!

**Oli**: Yes. I feel I ought to have ended the last chapter with, instead of a quote, a DUN DUN DUN! So much drama...the rest of the fic should be filled with happy bunnies and fabric softener. But alas, it's me, and you know that more drama is more to come. Especially in the form of Draco-suffering...no I'm kidding. Thank you so much for the concern about my car accident (damn vehicle is being held together by rope. ROPE I tell you. Rope does not belong on a car. Duct tape maybe. Super glue definitely. But rope? That's just not natural!) Yes, considering that this is a Harry Potter fanfiction, I felt obligated to bring in the hero at one point or other (to tell you the truth, in the first draft, he never really crossed my mind!) Hooray for the demise of exammy badness! I envy you. Exammy badness is in my dark future. Thanks for your thoughts, Oli!

**J Deann**: Heylo, very observant of you. Yes, it's possessive, abusive love, though, one might argue, that love is always pure in its purpose. One however (and when I say one, I mean Draco) cannot use love as an excuse for every little thing. Can you imagine?

"Now, Draco, why'd you take that candy from that baby?"

"Well, because, mum, I love Hermione Granger!"

"Oh, well that's perfectly forgivable."

Okay, so maybe I'm exaggerating (or not, considering candy stealing is _so_ much better than what he's done). Any questions you have regarding Ron Weasley may be answered in the following chapter (subtle enough? Probably not by half.). And, hopefully, all the "poor Hermione's" will die out in a chapter or too. Thank you for reviewing though, as I like it when a reviewer observes something so insightful.

**Athena Linborn**: First and foremost and firstly and first off and firsty first firstest...I must humbly bend on my knees (I'd say genuflect, but who _really_ says genuflect?) in gratitude. There are so many of my reviewers who say they've seen my pitiful fic on your fav list, and that's why they took interest. So, thank you much for faving it, Athena Linborn.

Yes, well, if you're confused and unsure of your own emotion, I can only assume you're identifying with Hermione. Poor dear. By the way I torture her, you can't really see how much I admire her (and I do. I think she's the best character in Harry Potter, excluding Harry Potter, of course.) I do agree with your sentiments at the end of the Chapter 8 review, though. Bastard needs to be put away.

Then again, I'm not sure I agree with Chapter 9 review. Needs to be locked up, but end up with Hermione any way? Now, even though it's plausible, I don't think I'd enjoy writing a through-the-gray-bars romance. I just can't bear the thought. Though, to be safe, I won't totally rule it out. Sad thing is, it's only the third week of school and I've already skipped so many classes...can't get into the working mood, it seems. Might it be because, while in class, I daydream of the next plot twist? This fanfic can't possibly contributing positively to my future. :0( Very good of you to notice that my updates become fewer and far between. I am unhappy with the progress as well, though, to be fair, I'm almost certain that I won't pull a month-in-between update again in the future. Right now I'm hoping I won't regret typing that. Also, I can't promise that they'll end up together because, as I've said before, it's more about Hermione than a Hermione-Draco thing. I want her to be happy. I could give less than a rat's ass for Draco. If I feel that, at the end of the fic, Draco will make her happy, than Draco'll get her. But, right now, I think the two need a time out from each other! Thanks again for the recommendations and for reviewing both chapters!

**Dastardly Snail**: Gee, I love your name. Any who, yes, it's exactly like Christmas. Except it's warmer, there are no gifts, no fat man with a penchant for red is threatening to invade my home, I don't feel guilty every time some guy with a Salvation Army bucket rings the bell outside the Target...other than those things, yeah, totally like Noel.

Well, technically, the smarmy bastard did not get off. He's more like...waiting to get off. And yes, hooray for Weasleys...except for Ginny. I don't like Ginny much. There's not much to her, I think. But oh well, I don't like Draco either, and look what I've done for him. Thanks so much for noticing the chapter titles; I used to love to make something special out of them but lately I haven't found the time. Thank you for noticing, thank you for reviewing both chapters, thank you!

The Painted Past

Chapter 10

**Help me carry on  
Assure me it's okay  
To use my heart**

xoxox

He gave a curt nod by way of greeting. Hermione knew her jaw had dropped unattractively, but could not help it. Her surprise doubled when she took in his appearance.

Harry Potter wore, of all things, a plain, white, and cotton long sleeved shirt, and jeans barely hanging on by a brown belt which did not match well with his black shoes. His glasses were askew, as if he had been rushing to arrive. His hair was strangely short, making him appear responsible and adult. Without the messy mane of blackness for contrast, his green eyes were less startling, and, indeed, duller against his pale skin. He was gaunt, but evidently stronger.

But the glaring, screaming, positively blinding change...

He had no scar. His forehead was bare of any blemish, of any mark.

She knew it was bad manners, not to mention insensitive, to stare. But her manners and sensitivity were forgotten in this reunion.

He stepped to the side.

"Excuse me," he said politely, in a rough voice, now deeper than she remembered. "But I came to speak to Malfoy for a bit."

He reached for the knob again, and just before entering, turned quickly to her.

"It was nice seeing you again."

And he was gone.

It was not, obviously, the reunion she had always envisioned. Moreover, it was not the reunion her worst enemy could have envisioned for her. Not even a smile. Not even a hug, or a handshake. Time, war, events, and mysterious forces had inexplicably reduced the once close pair into politely chilly clichés.

For a second, for half a heart beat...it almost felt as if things would be okay again. After all, here was Harry Potter. She would tell him about how much Draco hurt her, and how confused she was, and how the rude world had moved on without her...and he would make it better. He would rescue her, and take her out for ice cream—chocolate, Hermione mournfully thought—and make her feel better.

But he hadn't.

He hadn't really cared at all.

Hermione closed her mouth, and stared at the door. Determinedly, she blinked away tears, deciding they were silly and quite unnecessary. She grabbed the knob, but it would not give for her. The guard beside it gave little indication of watching her struggle. Whatever happened between Draco and Harry would remain forever private.

She stood in the harshly bright hall way for a few more minutes, thinking she could wait him out. Harry had a great deal to discuss, however, and minutes gave way to an hour before she realised it was a futile move. Mechanically, she made her way down the hall way, and then out of the Ministry. Once outside, Hermione stared blankly at the telephone before making a quick and unwise decision.

Hermione apparated to the Burrow just before a pair of muggles rounded the corner. Rules and secrecy be damned.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me Harry's back?" Hermione demanded the first person she encountered in a fury.

Percy Weasley's hand paused in mid air. George passed by, and, spying an opportunity, nicked the sandwich out of his elder brother's hand, and then left as soon as possible. The theft was enough to snap him from his surprise, and Percy frowned at the irate witch before him.

Even before her abduction, they had not been on the best of terms, something that seldom bothered Ron. It had delighted him, of course, when, upon reconciliation at the end of their fifth year, Percy Ignatius Weasley had received a scathing diatribe. It had been, surprisingly enough, not from mum—though a few choice words from Bill and Charlie had given the boy enough familial regret—but from his best friend, soon to be girl friend. When faced with a confrontation, without the embarrassing audience of Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley, or any of their off spring, Hermione had, reportedly, given a speech so lacerating that Percy—perfect prefect Percy—remained deathly silent for nearly two whole days. Neither Ron nor Harry ever learned exactly what transpired between the two while the others, outside, had been watching furniture duke it out, but were pleased with the results at any rate.

"What on earth are you talking about?" he asked now as he rose to fix himself another lunch.

"Harry Potter, you nit wit!" she screamed as she followed very closely. "Nobody said a word about his return! Wait," she said suddenly, though Percy had no intention of speaking up, "is this one of those things that happened but I didn't remember? Because if it is, I apologise."

Percy frowned, even more confused at the sudden change in moods. "I don't know what you're talking about. Harry's been gone for months. Lack of responsibility, if you ask me—"

Mrs. Weasley bustled in and gave a smile to the both of them. "I see you're catching up with Percy then?"

"Didn't even give me a hello," Percy grumbled.

Hermione, not at all eager to scream and swear in front of the only mother figure she had left, stomped to sit in the chair opposite of Percy, who had begun another sandwich. Now that she was calmer, Hermione took the time to study his appearance.

Still the same big head.

Still the same big ego.

And very odd pink pyjamas.

"Just a little prank," Mrs. Weasley explained, catching Hermione's bemused expression as she busied herself. "Every single thing of Percy's is pink, and I haven't a clue as to how to fix it."

"Fred and George should have chosen a colour that didn't clash with red hair," she laughed, and like the twin, reached forward to claim the other half of Percy's meal. All the recent drama had made her ravenous.

"Oh, no dear," Mrs. Weasley spoke up when Percy did nothing but turn beet red, "it wasn't the twins. Ginny did it."

"And went unpunished!" Percy cried in a whiny tone.

"You shouldn't have scolded her so," Mrs. Weasley responded wisely. "That's the parents' job you know."

Hermione looked at Percy again. "Do you live here?"

"I have that right," he snapped.

"But...you're a bit...do George and Fred live here?"

"They're looking for a proper flat near their store," Mrs. Weasley said distastefully. "But at the moment, yes."

Hermione said nothing again, but looked at Percy meaningfully. Because, though one was loath to admit it, Percy was mostly intelligent, he understood immediately.

"I am in between jobs," he informed her coolly, "and I thought I'd stay and...help the parents reorganise."

"And he's been so helpful," Mrs. Weasley chimed in, pinching his cheek, much to the mortification of her son. "Not useless at all."

Hermione smothered a laugh when Percy, through clenched teeth, stated, "No one had mentioned 'uselessness' at all, mum."

"Such cheek!" Molly laughed, not at all bothered by his embarrassment.

"Why not a job at the Ministry?" she wanted to know. "Surely your father..."

"I deserved to get sacked," Percy interrupted brusquely, "and I won't obtain a position unfairly. It wouldn't feel right, is all."

Hermione laughed and shook her head. Percy, still annoyed, demanded testily what she found so humourous.

"You're surprisingly honourable sometimes, you know," she told him with a smile.

"Oy, don't say rubbish like that," Ginny piped up as she strolled in and plopped into the chair. "His head'll get so big we'll have to move into a bigger Burrow." Percy, angered into silence, only glared when she added, "Nice pj's, brother."

"Hermione, here," he announced abruptly, in an effort to divert attention away from himself, "has been ranting nonsense about Harry."

Ginny stiffened at that, but assumed casualness when she turned to her and said, "What of him?" All eyes were now riveted on her, and her stomach tied in knots as she thought of her encounter.

"I just spoke with him," Hermione said, flustered. "At the Ministry. He came to visit Draco."

"Must have been somebody else," Ginny explained airily. "Harry's been gone for months."

"No...it was him. But...he was different."

"You must be mistaken," Ginny continued stubbornly. "Harry wouldn't come back after an eternity of absence just to see Malfoy. And he wouldn't have continued his little visit if he had seen you. He would have at least come to the Burrow and—"

"I told you," Hermione contradicted in a hard tone that left no room for argument. "That he was different."

Hermione found herself at a standoff of sorts, as she and Ginny began a childish but dire staring contest. She willed Ginny to understand that it was the truth. And Ginny, in turn, willed Hermione to understand that it was all bull shit.

"Harry would have come to see me," Ginny informed her warningly, finally saying what truly bothered her about Hermione's news.

"And yet he _didn't_," was Hermione's cutting reply.

She knew what she was doing. Ginny, all the Weasleys really, had been so kind to her. If she alienated them, who would she have left? Harry's friendship was no longer a certainty.

But, as manipulated as she had been, Hermione refused to surrender now. She knew what she saw, damn it. She may have been indisposed but she was not blinded. Hermione Granger, after months of being wrong, was not wrong right now.

"Are you staying for supper, dear?" Mrs. Weasley cut in, in a half hearted attempt to break the tension. "Oh, what am I saying? Of course you are. Arthur comes home around—"

"She was just leaving." Ginny spoke firmly and loudly, with so much authority that even Percy was visibly impressed.

There was no point in arguing, just as it was futile to stay. Dinner would have been awkward and angry, what with Ginny's tangible fury and the twins' inappropriate comments. Besides, after today's multitude of mind boggling events, Hermione was sure she could survive supper alone.

So, after polite good byes which were timidly returned, Hermione apparated to the flat. Or rather, at her flat's door step. Her apartment itself was a corner one, and so now she found herself in the dim end of a wide hall way, with no one to keep her company but a pot of silk flowers. Hermione gazed imploringly at the rectangular piece of wood, for she had no key, and Mrs. Weasley had locked it this morning.

Hermione braced herself to apparate again, when a voice on the opposite side of the hall way stopped her.

"You've already received two notifications for apparating with an expired license," Harry drawled, holding up two envelopes in one hand and a shaking box in the other. "I highly doubt you'll want to try for a third." He motioned to the large box, which had one handle and a few large holes. "Crookshanks was found, as you can see."

Hermione merely sent a blistering glance in his direction, grabbed the box, and then popped out of sight. She barely had time to set her beloved animal free before she heard the lock slide open and Harry stepped in casually, tucking his wand in his back pocket.

"Uninvited, Potter," she said coldly. Crookshanks, not caring for the company, left them alone to explore.

He refused to be affected. Carefully laying the envelopes on a nearby table and then locking the door, he snorted. "Now you sound like Malfoy. Call me Harry, if you please."

"I don't please," she informed him in arctic tones. Her attitude dropped to the friendly warmth of Siberia when he simply shrugged, and proceeded his way into the kitchen. Determined to annoy him just as much as he had earlier, Hermione stomped her way to the sofa. The angry noise carried to the neighbors below, who sent echoing bangs on their ceiling to convey the inconvenience. Harry laughed when Hermione frowned at the floor for ruining her effect, and followed to sit next to her.

As icy as her demeanor was, inside she nearly collapsed with relief. He hadn't changed so much, Hermione thought to herself. He hadn't turned into an unrecognisable adult. He wanted her to call him "Harry" and he cared enough for her to watch her cat. Her happiness with the fact was so immense she let out a heavy sigh of relief.

"Did you ever see Lady and the Tramp?" he asked, perfectly oblivious to her relaxed expression. "With the evil Siamese cats? And they're Siamese if you please and if you don't please?"

"So are you likening yourself to an animated animal?" she asked dully. Hermione focused on the windows like the night before, and noticed the sinking sun.

"No," he answered, slightly perplexed by her question. "You just reminded me of that, is all."

What words were proper in this situation? What subject could have possibly broken the odd wall formed between the two? Hermione contemplated speaking of the past, of the pleasant memories. Then she decided reminiscing was naïve and useless. What then? The present? The here and now, with all its kidnaping husbands and denial-loving Weasleys? No, no, she decided again. The present wasn't the best road to take.

It left one possible time choice. The future.

And she had no idea, let alone words, as to what that held.

Harry, ignorant to her pragmatic silent debate, suddenly spoke up. Hermione didn't really care for the subject, but found herself agreeing with him.

"This sofa," he exclaimed with laughable disapproval, "has no firmness whatsoever!"

"Yes," she said, caught off guard by his seriousness.

"No, really, Hermione," he continued, growing agitated, "there's no structure at all." He bounced, or tried to, on the cushion to demonstrate. "It's swallowing my arse into couch oblivion."

"Harry, you're getting annoying," Hermione sighed, and leaned back. She sunk into the cushions.

"No, it's not me," Harry argued petulantly. "You're irritated with this sad excuse of furniture. I could barely see your face, you're so sucked in."

"I am not sucked in," Hermione corrected, "You're being silly."

"We're drowning in a sea of bad upholstery," Harry droned dramatically. He was, of course, not gravely interested in the condition of the cushions, but rather the lack luster look in his old friend's eyes. Unfortunately for Harry and Harry's cute arse, Hermione was not tickled to the smallest of smiles by his display of stupidity.

"Ouch!" Harry cried when Hermione, without warning, rose, grabbed his arm, kicked the couch, and then dropped him on the recently vacated spot of hardwood floor. Harry glanced behind him and saw that Hermione did not, in fact, possess super human strength, and that the sofa had wheels which made her kick so effective. And then he rubbed his bum.

"That hurt," he pouted when she sat beside him.

"You were complaining," she offered simply with a shrug.

"I was _trying_ to make you laugh."

"It'll take a lot more than that."

They were momentarily distracted by a faint tapping on the windows, and Harry, with a faint scowl directed towards Hermione, rose and slid open the pane. Hedwig sat on the ledge, looking sleepily satisfied. The thoughtful animal had even brought Harry a dead mouse, laid generously before him, in case her master had missed a meal as well.

A few more minutes of silence, and then Harry's stomach rumbled. She opted not to comment on it.

"I'll get to the point," Harry said abruptly, and turned away from his pet. Hermione watched from the floor as he became uncomfortable enough to start pacing around the coffee table. "I need you."

"Need me?" Hermione echoed, faintly horrified that this might become another unexpected secret love.

"Yes, you and Malfoy."

Her perverse mind produced the equally horrifying idea that Harry was suggesting a threesome, and Harry, with a spark of amusement, caught her expression. "Didn't know you were into that sort of thing, Hermione," he laughed quietly. Hermione blushed and said nothing.

"I had no idea of your...situation. It will make things difficult, to say the least. We'll have to get Draco out of the Ministry, of course."

"I haven't consented," Hermione protested. "Nor will I! Draco will wait in his cell until they decide his punishment!"

Harry paused long enough to send her a grave, admonishing stare, an eerie imitation of Dumbledore himself. Hermione hushed meekly, and only said, "You haven't even said what you need us for."

"I was getting to that, eager student," he chuckled. "But I don't know quite where to begin. Have you eaten?"

"What?"

"Supper," he told her impatiently, "I'm hungry." To emphasize his point, his stomach let out a quiet roar again.

"Is that where you're going to begin your explanation?" she asked incredulously. Quickly, she scrambled to her feet. "Hello Hermione, I'm here after months of disappearance, ready to bust Malfoy out of jail and you out of depression so I can execute a mysterious plan—I'm fucking hungry?"

"Christ, Hermione, don't swear—"he began uncertainly, backing away.

"I'll do whatever I damn well please," she replied furiously, "because I am tired of being in the dark! You will explain yourself or I will drown you in that damn sofa and starve you with no food!"

Harry looked about helplessly, and saw the tempting kitchen just a few feet away from them. "But you have sweets on that table."

"Not a bite," Hermione threatened with inspiring menace. "Until you speak."

"Not a word," Harry threatened back, showing just why he had faced Voldemort and lived, "until a bite."

Hermione was shocked that he hadn't caved in. Ron did it often enough, as did Draco. Then again, she realised when Harry—too starved to finish the staring contest—drew out his wand and summoned the table closer, this Harry was different from the boy she once pressured into doing his homework. He wasn't in the mood for silly arguments that decided dominance and strength. He simply wanted something accomplished with the smallest amount of nonsense possible.

"I need somebody just as or more powerful than myself," Harry said casually around a peppermint jelly bean.

Hermione's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"So I wanted Draco Malfoy," Harry explained as he opened a chocolate frog.

She blushed, just a bit, feeling her wizarding confidence drop just a ton or two. Of course he was speaking of Malfoy!

"And I need somebody infinitely smarter than the both of us."

She stared blankly, meeting his gaze, when she realised that he meant her. Oh! That sinking self esteem rose again in recovery.

"Nobody else? Couldn't Dumbledore help?"

"No," Harry answered uneasily. "The spell requires a triad, and... it's a bit...unusual."

"Unusual meaning illegal?"

"If one must phrase it so pessimistically, yes," Harry admitted solemnly. He had the appearance of regret, Hermione noticed, but the distinctive glint of mischief flared briefly in his green eyes. Hermione sighed, and wondered if he would ever lose that boyish desire for trouble.

"Is there a time requirement?" she inquired curiously.

"Oh hell," Harry burst passionately, dropping the candy. "I need real food. I'll order something." It was startling, and a bit amusing, how easily he was distracted by the most innocent of things. One minute he was so stern, and the next he complained like a school boy. "Do you want to know my ring tone?" he asked excitedly after he had ordered a pizza on his mobile.

A mobile?

"Well," Harry said, a bit cheekily, "one can't always communicate through fire places, arse in the air."

She frowned at his explanation. Of course she didn't mind that he had one...it was just strange. For it meant, her swift mind thought, that he had friends who could not even communicate by fire place. It meant that Harry had made friends outside the wizarding world.

And that was _weird_. For Hermione—purely muggle-parented, normal little girl—hadn't even a minimal acquaintance with people in the muggle world. She hadn't even known her neighbor's names, back at her parent's house. Well. That was another problem to fix, wasn't it?

A loud beeping startled her out of her thoughts.

"Recognise it?" Harry asked with childish enthusiasm. Hermione shrugged, obviously not on pins and needles to find out. "Every little thing she does is magic. Reminded me of Ginny." It was, Hermione decided, a deplorably cheesy song, for a deplorably cheesy reason, but she decided Harry might not have taken kindly to that.

"Speaking of which," Hermione added delicately, "she'll want to see you."

"She will," he said uncomfortably. "Just don't tell her, yeah?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't tell anybody I'm back, I mean. 'Course, some people already know at the Ministry, but I've made sure they won't say nothing either. Yes, yes, I know," he waved away her words of double negatives. "I don't want anybody to know that I'm back, you see, because then I can't perform the spell. Also, it would very conspicuous for me to be visiting Draco, the most hated wizard since Voldemort."

Hermione bit her lip and decided honesty was the best policy. "I've already told the Weasleys."

"What!"

"It's okay," she hurried to explain. "They don't believe me."

"Hermione," he still moaned miserably.

"Well it's not like you said anything along the lines of secrecy," she rebuked tetchily. "In fact, you said very little."

"Only because I had a limited amount of time to speak with him," he argued. "I didn't have time to chat with you once I worked so hard to get an impromptu meeting with the criminal."

"Don't call him that!"

Harry paused in his increasing panic long enough to study her with something like bewilderment. "Why not?"

"Because he's not," Hermione said heatedly. Harry tilted his head, still quite confused by her defense. "At least...until proven guilty of all his charges."

"I think it's fair to say he's not being framed," Harry said dubiously. There was a knock on the door, for which she was very grateful, as it had saved her from a lengthier and incriminating explanation.

Hermione didn't know why she was surprised to see his face suddenly become guarded. Harry was acting so strange that she fully expected him to simply magically open the door, without any regard as to who was outside it. It was plain to see he was now more accustomed with his magic, and could freely use it. He moved carefully, yet with more confidence she noticed, towards the door. Despite his new ease with himself, Harry had not lost the tense carefulness of his school days.

Wand out, he opened the door slightly. "Yes?"

"Delivery."

"Of?"

"An atomic bomb," she heard a teenage boy say on the other side. "What d'you think? It's a pizza."

Harry gripped the wand tighter behind him, ready to strike if necessary. Hermione wanted to tell him not to waste his time, for her intuition told her there was no danger awaiting in the hall way. But her curiosity as to what he would do overrode her mouth, and she stood silent.

"Show me," Harry demanded. The boy laughed. Hermione guessed Harry gave some of that "fear me, I am the Boy Who Lived, also the Boy Who Thrashes Snotty Whelps" vibe, for the disrespectful chuckles subsided abruptly.

Satisfied, he swung the door open and Harry paid for the meal. Hermione then saw why Harry had been so suspicious. The delivery boy wore a long, black trench coat, and had dyed long black hair. If not for his Pokémon plastic watch and Dungeons and Dragons black t-shirt, he could have passed for a Death Eater of lower standards.

Just before he left, sans tip, the boy noticed Harry's wand. "Er..." Harry stammered, "remote control."

"No telly," the boy said in turn as he observed the flat, though he spent an unusual amount of time ogling Hermione.

"None of your business," Harry growled, and all but slammed the door in his face. They heard a whiny "ow" and the stomping away of thick soled shoes.

"You have an odd expression for one who should be chuffed at the sight of food," Hermione commented cheerfully when they moved to the kitchen.

"Disrespectful wankers," Harry muttered, opening the box. "Were we ever that horrible to our elders?"

Hermione, who remembered the exasperated expressions of Snape, McGonagall, Trelawny, and many other professors, snorted and gave him a knowing look. Harry appeared sheepish, and muttered, "Right."

"Imagine what he would have said if he noticed your scar," Hermione said without thinking as he handed her a slice. Harry paused, but then moved quickly when a large glob of cheese threatened to slide off his own slice. The greasy dairy splattered on his lap, and Hermione, in an effort to distract herself, stood to retrieve some plates and a napkin.

"Well," Harry said wryly when he had wiped off the mess as best he could, "that just screams incontinence."

Hermione laughed out loud before she could restrain it.

"Finally," Harry grinned, "things just didn't seem right until you broke that famous coolness and laughed a little."

"We need to sort things out," she sighed. Harry nodded, though it seemed he was more focused on his food than the current situation. "Harry, what will the spell do? What could you possibly need to be done, after everything that's happened?"

Harry took a bite, and said with a full mouth, "I knew I could count on you."

"I told you I haven't consented yet," she reminded him.

"Yes, but the illegality isn't what's bothering you. And that's brilliant!"

"That I'm willing to engage in unlawful activities?"

"No. It's brilliant that there are still some things that don't ever change," he said merrily.

"Oh, just get on with it, will you Harry?" she uttered in annoyance, though a tiny smile crept into her expression. "First off, what will this spell do?"

"I'll get to that," Harry replied evasively. He grabbed a second slice. "Now," he intoned with mocking earnestness, "sit down, for this may take a while."

"I am sitting down, you imbecile."

"Any listeners who call the story teller an imbecile will be dismissed," he threatened.

"And any story teller who limits the listener's freedom of speech will be thrown out of the flat," Hermione parried.

"Silly little threats from silly little girls duly noted," Harry said with a nod. "Right. On with the story..." Harry shifted in his chair and looked around nervously. "I don't suppose you have any alcohol around?"

"This flat was chosen and furnished by Dumbledore," she informed him primly. "So I highly doubt it."

Harry turned and glared at the displaced sofa. "I believe it. He'd probably find Death by Seating very funny."

"Harry," she warned, reaching the limit of her patience.

"Hmm? Oh, all right. Let's see...you've heard what's happened at the deciding battle, right?"

"You mean the disappearing part?"

"Yes." Harry crossed his arms and then uncrossed them, reached for a third slice but thought better of it. She hadn't seen him fidget this much since McGonagall caught them in the girls' loo sixth year—though, it had to be mentioned, that, after that incident, he and Ron were rather pleased in hearing they had been caught in the female facilities more than any other male student in Hogwarts history, and that special preventative measures were to be installed in their honour.

Hermione watched in fascination as Harry visibly tensed, as he mentally recreated the events of that battle.

"I don't," he began, agitated, "I don't want to tell you _everything_—"

"You don't have to," she reassured him softly, "just...the important parts." It was a stupid notion, she thought later. What part of Harry's life wasn't important?

"Then I won't," he continued, almost angrily, as if she were forcing the past out of him. His hand flew to his head, but there was no scar to cover. Realising this, Harry lost some of his intensity, and stared tiredly at Hermione.

God, she wanted to help him. But she couldn't. She didn't know how. She didn't know very much any more, but recognised irreparable pain when she saw it. And Harry's helpless gaze conveyed enough of the emotion that she leaned forward to hold his hand.

_Another stupid notion_, she thought again. As if he was a child, not some legendary wizard.

But he did not think it so stupid. Harry smiled slightly and said, "Your elbow."

"What of it?"

Harry nodded to the open box. "It's in the middle of the pizza." True to his word, the joint had sunk in gooey cheese and warm sauce.

"Oh!" Hermione jumped up and hurried to the sink. Where the water did very little for her greasy elbow.

Harry laughed, a nice, genuine sound, and said, "That piece is yours, by the way."

"You know you'd eat it, contaminated or not," she teased, and Harry shrugged, unable to deny it.

Harry mumbled something unintelligible, and Hermione pretended not to hear it. He mumbled again, louder, and Hermione rolled her eyes. It wasn't until he muttered something about her deafness did she glare. "Harry, I want you speak loud and clear. You're not going to make me bully you into an admission." She had meant, of course, that when he told her whatever was so terrible, she wanted it to be a voluntarily given speech. Hermione would not stand to being accused of browbeating later.

"Was that supposed to make sense?"

"I'm Hermione Malfoy," she replied with a sniff. "Everything I say makes sense."

Harry looked at her sharply but let it slide. The witch had no idea she had committed the mistake of name change again.

"He gave me a choice, Hermione," he said evenly, studying the grain of the table. "An offer."

"Who is he?"

"Tom Riddle." He fingered the former seat of the scar again, with such tenderness Hermione almost believed that he missed it.

"I—I knew it was wrong. To accept anything from him was bound to have its negative consequences. It's like signing a contract with the devil and then expecting heaven."

Hermione leaned heavily against the counter, because her legs felt oddly weak. Her mind scraped for a conclusion, but she did not like the idea. The idea that Harry would make a deal with the creature who had killed his parents, his friends, and...her Ron...the idea was incredibly stupid, disloyal, and _excruciating_.

"Harry," she issued, herself sounding older than ever before, with an intended note of condemnation. He winced, and scratched his forehead. "Harry, you didn't."

"But you didn't know the deal, Hermione," he pleaded, eyes riveted on the table. Even with the lifeless view, his eyebrows slanted painfully in desperate hope. "You didn't know what he offered."

"What could he have offered?" she demanded icily. "What the hell did he have that was worth the forfeit of your honour?"

Now he did whip his gaze to her, so that she could see the hurt swimming in the deep green. "I never said I gave up my honour!"

"No," she agreed, with an unforgiving stare, "one does not need to say it." A shadow of agony flitted over his face, and she felt no qualms. Her eyes flickered to his bare fore head. "Did he do that for you? As a reward for surrender? Good little Harry, giving in and earning himself a scar-free life."

He stood and closed the distance between them. Each step emanated dangerous power and unbridled confusion. Why was she hurting him? his eyes seemed to ask. He was close enough to push away, but Hermione did nothing. His hands were clenched for battle, but his shoulders were slumped in defeat.

"I have scars Hermione," he told her in an anguished whisper. "And I hurt every day. But it was worth it. Because _he's_ worth it."

He stepped back. Hermione could not extinguish the burning ice that had spiked through her, so there was no pity for the angst written clearly on his face. Scars were good, in her opinion, considering they were merely memories of fighting the good fight.

His hand shook as he pulled up his left sleeve.

"Get _out_."

"Hermione, wait—"

"Get out right _now_."

Harry grabbed her elbow, and she shook it off. Hermione's swift, angry footsteps brought them to the door, and she threw it open.

"Hermione!"

"You coward!" she erupted, finally abandoning her controlled fury. "You fucking bastard!" She jerkily motioned to the open door. "Get out!"

Ron died for him. Ron died for him and he turned around and formed an alliance with Satan. The fucking bastard made Ron's death meaningless.

"You need to listen."

"If you don't leave right now," Hermione warned him as the tears streamed down her face, "I'm going to kill you. If I have to do it with my bare hands, I will kill you."

"You're not being reasonable—"

"_Reasonable_! I've had the worst time in my life, Potter. I just found out that my husband is a murderer and kidnapper. That I was mourned and buried. That everything I knew and loved has changed or died. So did you think this was the best fucking time to tell me that you betrayed us when we all thought you won for us? _I'm not being reasonable_?"

A simmering, scalding hatred flowed in her blood, and Hermione felt the familiar and frightening urge to murder. A part of her didn't want to take more lives, thus her warnings to him. But mostly, she wanted justice. Harry's confession meant everything they had sacrificed—be it principles or friends—had been for naught. And he had to be punished for that.

"I'll _kill_ you," she said again, quietly. Harry searched her eyes, ready to see the blind, half crazed look that normally accompanied that threat. Hermione's brown eyes were frighteningly lucid. She wasn't acting on passion. It was a sensible decision in her mind, one that she would carry out if he didn't act fast.

"He said I could—"

"If it were a choice between death and life, you should have chosen death!" she screamed.

Harry stared at her, shaken by the chilling reminder of the last time he had heard those words thrown with such rage. He was ashamed to feel grateful that Sirius was not here to witness this damning conversation.

"To continue living, after what you did—surely you didn't think it worth it?"

"It wasn't my life at stake!" he yelled back, and reached forward to slam the door shut. Neighbors from below repeated their annoyance, and Harry was strongly tempted to reach for his wand and silence them.

"I did it for him," he explained desperately, leaning against the door.

"For Riddle!" she scoffed in disbelief.

"For _Ron_!" he exploded. "I wanted Ron back! He said I could have him, if only...If only..." Harry breathed heavily, exhausted by the yelling and memories. His green eyes were wide and hopeful, seeking approval with childlike innocence. "I thought you'd be happy."

Hermione took a step back. And another, and then another. She wanted to run, but he blocked the only exit. She slowly shook her head in horror. As much as she wished it other wise... "Ron's dead. You can't change that."

"He's not," he argued doggedly, "that's what Voldemort wanted us to think."

"You're sick, Harry." It was said with pity, void of the burning ire of before. "Harry, you need to get help."

"You're not listening," Harry bit out impatiently. "Sit down," he suggested, and motioned to the hated sofa. She did nothing, not until he brandished his wand again. Like Fred, Harry settled on the coffee table opposite her stiff form. In exasperation, he ran his hand through the left side of his hair, giving it the messily charming look of the old days on one side of his head, and the collected look of now on the other.

"I went about this wrong," he said to himself. "I'll start somewhere else." Harry squared his shoulders, as if preparing himself for battle.

"Nearly eight months ago, we finished the war. Suddenly, I had the power to bring him back, to rescue him. But I needed more than power, Hermione. I needed people, the time, and the place. People, I learned, like Draco, and yourself. The time—the exact anniversary. And the place—the exact location of his so called death."

Hermione opened her mouth, but stopped herself. _Poor Harry_, she thought as she noted his haunted eyes and unshakable faith.

"The wait, of course, was necessary. At times, it seemed too long. Other times, there didn't seem to be enough time. I approached Draco because he had something I needed."

"Power?"

"Yes. That and money. Hogwarts needed to be reconstructed, and there's no such thing as Voldemort school insurance. My funds were suddenly limited by the cost of the ingredients I needed. People to bribe into secrecy took enough money, as well. I couldn't very well do an illegal experiment with media hounds following my every move, especially on the anniversary of the beginning battle. In order for the Great Hall to be completed in time, we needed an extra donation.

"Draco was willing to anonymously donate—never one for a do gooder's reputation, under two conditions. One, he wanted some say over the reconstruction. And two..."

"Did you trade me?" Once the question was spoken, even Hermione doubted the sense in it. To trade her would guarantee her refusal in the resurrection spell.

"No!" he immediately denied. "And...yes, in a way. He told me he was ready to do something illegal. And he wanted to ensure that I wouldn't come to the rescue."

"So you knew I was kidnaped and did nothing?"

"No!" he cried again, offended enough to turn red. "Christ, Hermione, what do you take me for?"

"Take a look at your left arm," she said curtly. "You can be anything for all I know."

He tightened his mouth, and merely nodded, as if knowing he deserved that cut. "He was speaking of you, of course, in the vaguest of terms. I assumed, in my stupidity, that he was speaking of Zabini."

"What did he say?"

Harry frowned, and fiddled with his spectacles. "Side tracking a bit, aren't we?"

"What did he say?"

Harry began to fidget again. "Er...ah well...I don't remember exactly...but it was something about an old school mate he often admired. Draco told me that he'd 'take care of' said class mate. And that this person would get everything they deserved. I remember thinking he sounded kind of...partial to the one legged bloke."

"Zabini?" Hermione asked, confused.

"Yeah."

"He said that he admired this school mate?"

"Yes."

Hermione, crossed her legs, and leaned forward in bafflement. "Harry," she prompted, trying to meet his avoiding eyes. "Harry, did you think Draco was gay?"

He said nothing, but the widening of his eyes and the quickly stifled grin on his lips spoke volumes. "Harry!" she exclaimed, terribly offended for her "husband's" sake, "You thought he was gay?"

"You had to admit," Harry said with a careless shrug, "There was something poufy about him."

"Did you not hear the rumour that he slept with half of his house?" she demanded, quelling a smile.

"Ah, of course. But which half?" he pointed out sagely.

"Harry—"

"And the way he slicked his hair," Harry added with a chortle. "And the way he walked—kind of daintily, you know? As if he had a balance problem without walking on tiny little high heeled shoes."

"If he did have a balance problem," Hermione said defensively, "it wasn't because of anything little."

Harry tilted his head, once again confused. "Huh?" He scratched at his absent scar, and then his eyes lit anew. "Oh!" A pause. "Ew, Hermione. You shouldn't say phallic jokes."

"Harry!" Hermione reproved, blushing because he had said it so baldly.

How strange, how utterly bizarre to be sitting here, with a traitorous friend, and joking about her even more traitorous lover. The humour was inappropriate, they both knew. While she laughed, her eyes strayed to his covered arm uncontrollably. While he chuckled, he gripped the condemning brand by habit, as if sheer will could force it off. Their laughter was as strange as it was ill timed, and yet they both so desperately needed it.

"What? Some people insinuate, and then I say it flat out," he laughed. Not wanting to wait for the down turn of her mood, Harry continued immediately. "Any way, I heard of Zabini's death, and assumed that he refused Draco's affection, and was promptly killed for his good sense." Hermione glared. "I never heard of your disappearance. My only contact with the UK wizarding world was Draco. He wrote of things he thought I should know. The twins' reappearance, Percy getting sacked, and all that. Nothing of you, of course, otherwise I would have come and helped you escape, which he very well knew."

"What about the newspapers?"

Harry shook his head. "No, full of false information. Perhaps you hadn't noticed it, Hermione, but ever since the War began every newspaper had been full of propaganda. Even Luna's. It was helpful at first, but the falsehoods hadn't died immediately after. One week, the Daily Prophet said that Neville was the ruler of Surrey by divine right, which is, you should know, ridiculous. If anybody's anybody, I'm the god given monarch of Surrey, for all that I've suffered in it." Hermione gave an impatient shake of her head, and he sheepishly dropped his half serious joking. "Well, I mostly ignored them after that.

"And that was that. I've been around the world, gathering, hunting, and stealing the right materials ever since. Just finished, and I come back to this bloody mess."

"But the deal?" she reminded him gently.

"Ah yes...he tricked me."

"Draco?"

"No. Voldemort. We fought..."

Harry's entire demeanor changed again. His muscles were taught, eyes dull, and lips twitchy. He sat stiffly, as if ready to attack an unseen enemy. "And I did some things I didn't know I had the capability for." Harry looked anxiously out the window. "Or the pettiness.

"I was on the point of winning—though it hardly felt like it—when he asked for a moment please. Maybe it was my delirium or his just shocking politeness—did you ever think Voldermort'd say please to me?" She shook her head, too lost in the story to summon her anger.

"But where were you?"

"Do you remember how my scar was sort of a link to him? I have this theory—far fetched and completely unresearched—that there are all sorts of planes. Of course, the physical and the emotional, psychic, and all that good stuff."

"I hate to break this to you, Harry, but that theory's already been invented."

"Let me finish," he told her, irked by her condescending attitude. "My theory that all the planes, or at least the psychic one, is much more physical than we realise. Another dimension, if you will. Now don't roll your eyes," he complained. "You've heard of dream worlds, correct?"

"Yes, but—"

"Oh fuck it all," he interrupted with surprising impatience. "The point is, we met somewhere in between. Between my mind and his mind...oh damn, this is hard to explain."

"Do you mean that everybody lives mentally on some sort of psychic plane the way we all live on earth?"

"Yes—no, I mean..." He sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Look, all I know is, Voldemort forged a link with me, and that provided the proper battle grounds for us. Where it didn't matter that he has the physical strength of a toddler, and it doesn't matter that I'm centuries behind him in magic knowledge. All that mattered was what we possessed in our mind, will, and our souls. There were no fancy spells, no intricate incantations. We had our wands, of course, we still used them a bit...but not really. Damn, I don't know how to say it. It was just us, ourselves, if that makes sense. That's what it all boiled down to.

"Go ahead," he invited dismally, "tease all you want. I know it sounds silly."

"I'm not going to tease," Hermione replied gently. "I just want to know what happened."

Harry squinted at the rest of the of her apartment. "He said please, you know. It was my down fall. The bastard was polite and I gave him the benefit of the doubt." He awkwardly scratched at the lining of his jeans, tracing his thumb down the seam in a sadly guilty manner. "And then he proposed a deal.

"He said he could give me the power to bring somebody back from hell. Somebody who would spend the rest of eternity in torment if I didn't do anything."

"Did you honestly believe that Ron was in hell?"

"I believed Voldemort when he said that Ron was some place where he shouldn't be. I had been—please don't laugh," he requested, and she promised. "I had dreams. With Ron talking to me, or at least trying. And I thought, 'If Ron is in heaven, why is he so bothered?' It had been plaguing me since the First Battle. I felt it was him, not just me dreaming of him.

"So I wanted to help him. There's always a catch, of course. In this case, two. Voldemort was willing to give the remnants of his powers and Ron's location to me—not much after all that, I tell you that much—under one condition." Harry rubbed his palms on his denim covered thighs, and Hermione assumed it was because his hands were sweaty.

"He wanted me to erase him. He wanted me to eradicate Voldemort."

There was a pause, not for effect, however. Harry appeared somewhat amazed, as if it were the first time he had said it aloud. Hermione breathed deeply, swallowing the words.

"How is that a catch?"

Harry looked at her in surprise, for, in his reminiscing, he had forgotten her very existence.

"What? Oh, oh yes, that. He wanted me to kill Voldemort—but allow Tom Riddle to live. He spouted some nonsense of how there's a bit of the old Tom Riddle still in him, some where inside."

"But that's not true," Hermione couldn't help but argue. "You killed him. You destroyed Tom Riddle."

Harry smiled wanly. "And brought him back. Accidentally. Voldemort had changed himself into something inhuman, Hermione, something past comprehension and decency—but he needed my blood, don't you see? He needed my blood, my human, normal, partially Muggle blood to become stronger at the end of our fourth year. When he took my blood, some part of Tom Riddle—the only half way decent part about him, I suppose—was resurrected, but shut away. That was why, I suppose, Dumbledore was happy about the news, of my blood being stolen. It gave the crazy old man some hope, at least."

Hermione, not being present of that fateful meeting with Dumbledore after the death of Diggory, had no idea what he meant by that, and the two sat in relative silence. At last, she spoke.

"So?"

"I agreed."

"_Why_?"

"Would you believe me if I said, 'Because I'm good ol' Harry Potter'? Right, didn't think so. Because...I thought it was my only option. To get him back, and to be rid of Voldemort totally. Perhaps I could control his evil better, I thought, if it was in me."

Harry reached forward timidly. Hermione kept her hand tucked in her lap, afraid of what physical contact meant. Voldemort's spirit, his essence, was in the boy who sat in front of her. And there was no way of denying that when his sleeve rode up to reveal the Death Eater's mark. Despite her reluctance, Harry clasped her hand firmly, more for his comfort than hers.

"What happened?" she demanded.

"Maybe I did give up my honour," he drawled bitterly. "I did something bad, Hermione." His tone was grated, hushed and filled with self loathing. Harry stared at her imploringly, strongly reminding her of a sinner begging for forgiveness. "Very, very bad."

"What did you do?" she demanded again, trying like hell to swallow her disgust.

His mouth moved several times to begin, but the words refused to pour out for several minutes.

"I agreed," he said slowly, in a detached manner. He spoke with a tiny frown, much like one would when recalling a different, less fortunate person's past mistakes. "And he gave me that power. He gave me everything that was Voldemort, the Dark Lord, the—the man who killed my parents. I owned everything he owned. I was everything that he was. And I knew everything that he knew. And...well, it sort of scared me, you know? Having that much power—enough power to send somebody clear into nothingness. Enough power to just transfer power, as if it were nothing at all. I don't like that idea—taking away knowledge, power, life...and just giving it to somebody else. I especially didn't like the idea of transferring knowledge.

"It was his mistake," he breathed, nodding to himself thoughtfully, "that part. I reckon he thought once I found out, it wouldn't have mattered, because by then I was bound by my word." Harry grabbed her other hand, securing her position, and then spoke frankly but slowly. "Ron wasn't dead."

_What?_ She thought she asked frantically. _What do you mean?_ She thought she had screamed. But, in actuality, Hermione had said nothing. She had done nothing but stare.

"By no means was he alive, either," Harry muttered ruefully. "Now, this isn't a theory of mine. It's fact. There's a place between heaven and hell, between living and dead. It's not Purgatory, and it's not zombie-like either. Some call it Limbo, but I think it's too horrible to have such a silly name.

"Dante mentioned something of it, at least what he thought it was. It's not exactly reserved for those who missed their baptism, but it's not for the bad people either."

Hermione's face betrayed nothing, but the emotionless mask was interpreted as confusion by Harry.

"Think of Existence as a long, straight road, all right? And then there's a fork in that road. The fork is death. The right turn leads to heaven, and the other to hell. But Voldemort managed to send Ron straight past the fork—where there is no road. He doesn't exist, but he's not dead."

"Could we..." His eyes were wide with her interruption, as if it hadn't occurred to him that Hermione wouldn't understand. "Could we—people living like you and me—could we visit that sometimes?" He shook his head in confusion, not grasping the gist of her question. Hermione herself did not comprehend why the question was so important, why the very possibility made her palms sweaty and her heart speed up. "Could we wake up to nonexistence?"

"No," Harry answered, still perplexed. "No, I don't think so...of course, nobody really knows, do they?" His gentle smile was all he could offer in her apparent apprehension, and she returned it with a pitiful one of her own, despite the hope slowly staggering within her mind.

"I had to save him from that. He deserves something, Hermione, something decisive. Not the horrible place of in between. Voldemort had kept him there all along, as a sort of insurance plan, a last minute barter. Just in case he was near death and needed a bargaining tool.

"That bastard," he said to himself, and released her hands. Distracted, he ran both his hands through his hair, and the black locks went every which way. "I was angry, but in a way I had kind of expected it." He smiled, though for what bizarre reason Hermione had no idea.

"Do you know what he said then? No, I expect you don't. He asked me, 'Where am I?' His voice was different, sure. As were his eyes, his face, and his body. Still rather disgusting, but more human than before." With care and shame, Harry pulled down the sleeve that covered the mark.

"Close your eyes," he ordered, without emotion. "Please," he added when she simply stared.

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to see your expression when I say what I did."

It was the truth, and though she still had doubts of his present set of principles, Hermione complied. Then she heard him laugh quietly.

"Something—perhaps himself—reminded me that I was bound by my word. But what is a word, Hermione? It's a sound, or a series of sounds that you make to get what you want. My word wasn't a physical chain, and there were no witnesses. I gave my word, yes, but all I really did was make a meaningless sound to arrange his thoughts, his logic, his reasoning in just the right order to get what I want."

Another, dry and humourless laugh. It frightened her, how easily and often her Harry would give it, for the self deprecation was thick in his tone. There shouldn't have been so much self loathing from one who used to be so noble.

"I'm rationalizing, yes. Even when I can't see your eyes, your eyebrows are doing that thing they do when you don't approve. It's okay, Hermione, don't apologise. I don't approve of myself either."

Now was not the time for tears. Part of her wanted to cry for his lost of innocence, but mostly, she knew that she had outgrown that level of pain. Something so delicate was expected to die eventually. And in the war's generation, lost innocence was just a fleeting wound to be bound and forgotten.

"Nothing but myself was binding me. And, while I hate betrayal from others, it's my right to myself. Only I knew the amount of pain a betrayal to my person would cause, so only I had that right. That's what we both hate about betrayal, isn't it, Hermione? The other person never quite realises how much it'd hurt us. I was very angry with Ron, for dying. I told myself he had no idea how much it would hurt me, Ginny, you, and every one else."

Hermione suddenly envisioned Draco, and made a note to repeat that to him the next time she had the chance.

"And this was my chance to tell him. To tell him how very selfish he had been for going away. I knew the pain I'd cause myself—and risked it. I broke my word to Tom Riddle, Hermione. I killed him. I killed him when he had no mode of defense, when he had no idea just how much pain he had caused, when he was looking to me for answers, when he..."

Harry's lips tightened, and his face went pale as he remembered. Gently, he plucked the spectacles from the bridge of his nose and made a slow, careful show of wiping the lenses with his shirt. When he spoke, it was with cool indifference; something that made Hermione flinch, and yet she did not mind it so much. Harry needed to feign apathy in order to preserve his sanity.

"Tom just kept asking all these questions. He was just so bloody confused. He wanted to get out of that place and, please, could I help him?" He replaced the glasses and shrugged, turning to study Hermione, with her closed eyes and total ignorance of just how terrible it had been. Suddenly, he was angry. She didn't know, did she? And yet, she was judging him. She hadn't said anything, but he knew, of course he knew, that she was judging him, thinking him lower than dirt, thinking him to be the worst wizard of—

"Go on, Harry," she said softly, one small hand reaching forward blindly to clasp his hand. Eagerly, his own hand, larger and callused, enveloped it, holding it tightly as if it would save him.

No, she didn't understand. But he was rather glad that she didn't.

"I just killed him, Hermione. I didn't give an explanation or reason...and the mark appeared. Another fail safe, I suppose. Just in case I went back on my word, which was something I never thought would happen."

One of the millions, she sneered silently, hating herself for the lack of empathy and cruel enjoyment she felt for high and mighty Harry Potter falling from the pedestal. Oh god did she hate herself. But at least she felt ashamed for the selfish thoughts, and supposed that counted for something. As if sensing her betraying doubts, he withdrew from her, keeping his hands on his lap in a protective gesture.

"My old scar disappeared—the one that showed me for the Boy Who Lived, the zig zag line of blood that was testament of my mother's protective love. And the new one burnt into my arm permanently—one that always stings, reminding me of my promise broken. I know I deserve it, but I hide it. Because I'm ashamed of what others would say when they saw it, and what they'd do when they heard the story. I don't want the Weasleys to see it. But I felt I could handle telling you, because your doubt was always second to your loyalty."

She was not given permission, but Hermione could no longer keep her eyes shut. When she looked at him, Harry hadn't noticed. He focused on his hands, clenching and unclenching them as if testing their power.

He was worse, of course he was worse. No longer shining with his halo, no longer bursting with good deeds...but he was better. So much _better_. For he was shaded by sin and yet still so heroic, silent in his torment and willing to save those who could not be rescued. An ache grew in her throat and in her heart for the one who was tirelessly brave, even when his soul nearly died with fatigue.

"One could say," she said softly, "that it was a measure of safety. Like you said, Harry, it could have all been nonsense. Perhaps there was still some of the evil Voldemort left in him. One could say that you couldn't have let him walk, in case he went on to kill more people—"

"Yes," he cut in firmly. Harry refused to avoid the lacerations of his past, and said, "One could paint that pretty, fake picture." Harry clenched his fists again, not as a test of strength, but as an act of anger. "Point is, he knew that I had believed Ron dead, when he knew that Ron wasn't. It wasn't his duty to inform me, of course, but it would have been good to know before we sealed the deal upon honours of our words. I was angry, and I killed him. _End of story_."

"And now?"

"Now?" Harry repeated dully.

"Now what happens? There is no 'end of story,' Harry. It's continued. You can't dwell on that mistake—"

"Was it a _mistake_, then?" His smile was small and self deprecating.

"—if you intend to do what you intend to do."

"You didn't say 'we,'" he noticed aloud. Hermione had no time to explain her indecision when he continued, "I have the place ready—the hall was recently finished. All I need is the time and people. I thought both were confirmed. But with Draco's sentencing, who knows when he'll be out? He's willing though..."

"Why me?" she asked tiredly. Hermione, feeling the full weight of the day's events, leaned back against the shapeless cushions. "I'm smart, yes, but so are a lot of people willing to do illegal things."

"I don't need you for intelligence—oh, don't be insulted Hermione. Of course I need you for that—but I also need someone who loves him." She scoffed, and he hurried to reassure her. "No, really, it's in the spell. According to the _Neutiquam erro_ ceremony, one needs familial love—that's me. Pure love—that'd be you, if you're willing. And then pure hatred—Draco."

"Draco hates him?"

Harry shrugged. "Evidently. He said so in so many words this afternoon."

"Then why would Draco help in the ceremony to bring Ron back to life?"

"I guess that's why the ceremony is rarely performed successfully. Never gets all the participants."

"Answer the question, Harry."

Harry smiled unpleasantly. "Because he gave me his word. I never interfered with your stay at the Malfoy Manor. I ensured his position at the reconstruction of Hogwarts. He has to keep his end of the bargain."

"He'll break it," Hermione said without hesitation. She didn't know if she was relieved or disappointed by her words.

"You never know," Harry said blandly, "Malfoy may have more honour than me. Then again, even if he was willing, we might never have the opportunity. He might rot in jail as our chance flies by."

Hermione stood indignantly. "That's not fair," she argued, "to ask me, to pressure me." Harry stared up at her impassively. "You don't know what I've been through, damn it, you don't know what it's been like. You haven't the faintest idea how much hell I've endured. And now you're asking me—telling me, basically, to surrender my right to punish him so that Ron will live again?"

"I never said he'd live," he admitted, unfaltering.

"What?"

"Ron's lost. And 'lost' will become more permanent with every passing death anniversary—stuck in nonexistence forever. The spell puts lost people where they belong. If he was meant to live this long, he'll come back to life. If he was meant to die in the second, third, fourth, and all other battles, then he comes back dead. The point is to put him where he belongs."

It wasn't a good incentive, as far as consequences were concerned. Whether she dropped charges or helped Draco escape, there was no guarantee there would be a living, breathing Ron to comfort her. But, she was not certain she wanted that. If all went successfully, that meant two free men were to pursue her. But if all went wrong, that meant one, imprisoned man was restrained from loving her.

"You said..." Hermione heard a flat, dead voice begin, barely a pitiful thread in the stark silence. It had taken Harry's waiting expression to make her realise it had been her own, strange, unrecognisable voice. "You said you needed somebody more powerful."

"Yes," Harry agreed, immediately grasping the context. "The more power involved in the Triad, the safer it will be for all participants. And Malfoy, it seems, has become _double_ the wizard he once was since the Year began—"

"But Harry." Hermione shook her head, and met his gaze directly. "You're far more powerful."

"No, Malfoy is. I used to be better than him, before, in school, but I guess Death Eater training has toughened—"

"I mean," she interrupted delicately. "I mean, you're double the wizard as well." He looked blankly at her. "Harry. You have Voldemort's power in you."

Now comprehension slowly spread over Harry's gaunt features, and with it came disgust. "Yes," he agreed, and with a sickened tone he added, "but that power comes with a price. It comes with knowledge...memories...I'm not going to tap into that. I'm not going to tap into that."

It was Hermione turn to watch him with abject confusion, so he clarified. "He's used it, that power, before, Hermione. On other people." My parents, he almost said, but swallowed. "I can't use that power, Hermione. It would be...it would be like—" It was so damn hard to find an adequate comparison. "It would sort of be like spending blood money."

She understood immediately, and was suddenly unable to meet his hard, green stare. Of course. Of course. How the hell could she have not known?

Just how different had she become since her school girl days?

He must have seen some of the self criticism in her eyes, for he patted her shoulder awkwardly for comfort.

"I'm knackered," Harry announced suddenly, and stood to stretch expansively. This abrupt exhaustion seemed to be mostly for show, or a sudden conversation change, for his eyes were still bright from the conversation. "Any where to sleep?"

"Of course."

"Any place besides this miserable sofa, I mean."

"There's only one bedroom, Harry."

This soft relay of information revealed that, for all he had lost in the past year and a half, Harry had not misplaced his basic gentlemanly manner. He did not even mention sharing the bed, and only murmured, "Of course." With drowsy alarm, she felt his searching gaze on her retreating back as she left him. "You'd want to have a bed to yourself now, wouldn't you? After all those months of him?"

She did not answer. Hermione was not sure if he had expected one, just to test her. But she was too damn emotionally and physically drained to venture into that dangerous field of conversation.

It was difficult, naturally, to fall instantly asleep, considering the day's round of exciting events. Her mind switched gears without warning; first to Draco, and then Harry, and then Ginny's pained expression, and then Dumbledore...until she finally resigned to reminisce about the one person she hadn't seen in a very long time.

"_What're you studying?"_

"_Latin, I told you already."_

"_What's this? Ouch, don't snatch, you horrible thing, you'll leave paper cuts."_

"_They're little phrases, Ron. Cute little things that help me remember conjugation."_

"_My, my, aren't we a clever little monkey?"_

"_Says the boy with ears that could take flight."_

She could almost picture his face, sharp, angular, faintly shaded by stubble. She could almost see the angle of his tilted head as he looked down at her, sitting so close to her body that she felt his body warmth through their layers of clothing. She could almost feel his cerulean gaze as it slid from the parchment to her lips, lighting anew when an activity, more enjoyable than studying a dead language, popped into his red haired head.

Just the night prior, Hermione remembered obliquely, just the night prior to the first battle, they had a terrible row. One where it was more about landing a barb more hurtful than the last, instead of actually making a point. She recalled, vaguely, how each heated reply was designed to hurt more than the prior had, because pride would not allow either of them to back down and admit how much those words that he spat or she shouted hurt them.

But, try as she might, Hermione could not recall the exact details of the argument as she laid on her pillow. She could not blame Draco's spell either; for it would have been his Machiavellian generosity to let her remember any terrible memories concerning Ron Weasley.

Little mattered, however, once she surrendered to slumber. The troubling gaps in her memory were washed away by the gentle sway of unconsciousness. Despite the alarming motivations that brought him here, Harry's arrival was welcome. It grounded her. Reminded her that there was more to the world than Draco's kisses and the lies that were hidden in them.

When Hermione found herself lying on a rug in the Burrow, she accepted the fact with drowsy contentment. Whether one accepted the facts or not, dreams would continue, she reasoned, so there was little else to do but resign.

Of course she was laying on the floor. Of course the Burrow was perfectly empty of all the normal occupants. Of course that the only sound was the heated shower upstairs.

And of course Ron Weasley finished his shower and stepped down the stairs with an air of nude nonchalance.

He saw her vague distress, however, and took care to wrap a towel—now where had that come from, Hermione wondered—around his waist to cover matters of importance. Now much relieved—though really, she couldn't understand why, as they were married, here, in the empty Burrow—she rose and joined him at the kitchen table to dinner.

She didn't need help to walk. She didn't need to hold his hand. She didn't need a firm grasp on her elbow.

But he kept touching her. He kept skin contact and...well, it just felt wrong. Just like it was wrong for him to walk around in his altogether, and just like it was wrong for the kitchen to suddenly transform into a bedroom.

His fingers found exposed skin between the hem of her blouse and the waistband of her jeans. Before she could snap at him, the callused fingers slid slightly, creating a pleasant pressure on her aching muscles. When she turned to him, Ron smiled with perfect innocence and even threatened to back off, not wanting to crowd her.

Her body was pulled toward him, as if a spell had bound them together.

It was okay if her sudden hug threw him off balance, making him swear, "Bloody hell!" as his bare back collided sharply with a bed post. It was perfectly all right for him to glare down at her, determined not to smile as she giggled. And it was tremendously wonderful for the bedroom to swirl into a pleasant version of her home, where the television boggled him and he was too tall in her small living room.

She just watched him, fiddle with this and nearly break that, with a childlike curiosity but a manly condescension. She loved to look at him with his sudden jeans and rough, knitted jumper. He was cranky, beyond cranky, when he, too tall for the dimensions of the house, bumped his head into the door frame while following her wherever the hell she went—where is your sense of navigation, Hermione, in your very own house? He wanted to know—and she laughed. He refused to laugh, refused to admit that television was more entertaining than gobstones, refused to say that muggle radio stations had more interesting opinions than the sole channel he listened to at home.

"Bloody hell," he swore again—her parents might've disapproved, if they were in residence—but this time she couldn't figure out what for.

It didn't matter.

She knew, just as he assumed she would.

She knew that his defeated "Bloody hell's" meant "Go on, laugh. I'll love you no matter what."

She knew that his "insufferable know it all's" meant "Wish she wouldn't show me up. Can't impress her if she shows me up."

She knew that his rolling eyes-irritated sighs meant "Stop talking about so-and-so, he's not good enough for you."

She knew that his pushing hands, his "Don't be daft's" meant "Go now, and be safe, because you just have to be safe, Hermione, you _have to_ be safe."

She knew that his dying meant "I'll miss you Hermione, but this is more important."

She knew that his ensuing silence meant, "See Hermione? See how well I'm resting. No need to worry Hermione. No need to worry."

Why did Ron lie?

If he had been lost, stuck, misplaced...if Ron had been in a place unfit for anybody, why hadn't he contacted her? Harry spoke of dreams, of an agitated Ron. Throughout the war, throughout the reconstruction, not once had she had a strange dream in which Ron requested some sort of rescue.

Why did Ron lie?

Hermione's eyes flew open, something unknown shaking her from her sleep. For a moment, she was confused, for the view was not that of Draco's bedposts, of the high ceilings in the Malfoy Manor. She shook her head, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. It had been days. She thought she'd be used to it by now.

A soft knock at the bedroom door startled her, hinting perhaps that that was what had awoken her in the first place. Sitting up slightly against the headboard, Hermione bade the visitor to enter.

Harry sauntered in, with an unfamiliar hunch, as if he had grown accustomed to sneaking around in shadows. She did not bother to reach over and turn on the lamp, and sat with silent curiosity as he approached the bed.

"It's...past midnight," he murmured in an estimating tone, as if she had asked him a question. Without permission, he quickly sat on her bed, narrowly missing her feet in his exhaustion. "Couldn't sleep. I picked these up...it's been a while since I've read it..."

Hermione barely glanced at the sheaf of papers that he tossed by her hand. "Harry, what's the matter with you?"

She noticed that he still wore his shoes, and he smelled faintly of night air. Had he just returned?

"Do you know," he continued in a calm tone, "that they think he should get off?"

"Who?"

"People. By no means do they think he's innocent. But he should get off. That's what some are saying."

She was in no mood to interrupt her slumber simply for another round of bitter conversation. "The masses are asses, Harry," she sighed impatiently, shifting once more to her supine position. "You should know that more than anybody."

"Yes," he agreed, timbre still light, still casual. "But I can't help but think that individuals believes this rubbish as well."

"Point being?" she snapped. The more complicated the issues, the more she awake became, and the less likely she would be able to fall asleep again.

"Point being, it's all hypocritical."

"Of course it is. Doesn't mean talking about it will change it."

"I mean, look at Sirius." Hermione stilled, not understanding this sudden subject change. Her eyes slid to Harry, who sat with his forearms resting on his thighs, studying his hands as if discovery waited in them. "According to the press, Sirius killed muggles and a good wizard, betrayed the people he loved, et cetera, et cetera..." He shrugged. "They hated him. They still do."

She said nothing.

"But Draco Malfoy," he continued, voice taking a falsely amused chord, "now there's a boy who killed good wizards and bad wizards. Who betrayed his family and the ones he loved several times over. Who is totally and completely unashamed by his lack of scruples, by his selfish goals, by his I don't give a damn about anything except my own happiness attitude... And yet they say, 'He should get off.'"

"It's what you want, isn't it?" she challenged.

"I want him for the spell," Harry clarified. "I don't want him unpunished."

"Punished how? Death? Imprisonment? How do you begin to punish a man who is not, and probably never will be, sorry?"

"Oh yes," he agreed, his placid voice wavering. "He's not sorry, is he? I heard of that bit. Ridiculously invasive questioning, right?" She nodded vaguely and he shrugged. "He's not sorry because you love him."

He waited, unsure of her reaction, meeting her gaze in the shadows. To his immense disappointment, she turned away, reaching over to switch on the lamp on the bedside table.

"_You love him_?"

She should have answered. She should have hinted that, yes, she found the last few months horrendous. It might have been a lie, yes, but it would have kept her safe. Hermione couldn't bear the look of shocked repugnance on Harry's face, half hidden in the shadows. She might have borne it from Ginny, from the twins, from Mrs. Weasley...But Harry was her friend. Harry was the only family she had left. His opinion, right now, was one of the few that mattered. It was her secret, and she did not want Harry to find out until she had emotionally prepared herself for his expected reaction.

But Harry, of course, had a habit for drawing out secrets. He was the master of so many, after all.

"Harry—"

"You love him. You love that cruel bastard?"

"It's not what you think..." Hermione sat up, puzzled. Now whatever had possessed her to say that? She didn't even know what Harry thought. All she knew that if Harry was reacting this violently, then surely he was ignorant of the true nature of her relationship with Draco. Whatever she felt for Draco, it wasn't something to hate. It wasn't something to abhor as Harry did so apparently.

"Oh, you know what I think? Hypocrite. You're nothing but a hypocrite." He stood now, as if the very nearness of her sickened him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's so hypocritical, Hermione, so beneath you, that I never would have thought... Damn it, Hermione, what if Ron had done it?"

What?

She hadn't spoken; only opened her mouth in blank surprise. Hermione watched with wide eyes as Harry ran his hands through his hair, and found a chair in the corner of the room to bring it beside her bed. His lips were merely a tight line of disapproval, and his knuckles were white with tension.

"All right, I'll say it differently," he conceded with false sympathy. His voice, the sheer cutting of his tone, wounded her into silence. "Draco Malfoy, poor soul, was raised by the wrong people. He can't help being evil. It was society and blood that made him the prat he was for all those school years. It was his warped sense of duty that forced him to kill our professors, our class mates, our friends for the first battles of the war. It was his miraculous epiphany of righteousness that made him join our side and repent his sins. It was admirable love and devotion that motivated him to kidnap you, harm you, cut you, bleed you, drag you into the emotions that he deemed necessary—because, as smart as you are, you're only Hermione Granger, practically a child, practically a blind little girl who needs pushing in her own emotions. You don't know any better; Draco does, because he's fucking Draco Malfoy. Because he's everybody's wet dream of a bad boy reformed. Because he's so unapologetic that commiseration or censure won't work on him, so people decide to cheer for him."

"_Shut up_!"

He was hurting her; his words were slashing at her more than anybody else's could have. And, worse yet, he knew it. Harry knew how much his mocking tone clawed at her, and he continued.

"But what if it was Ron, hmm? Suppose it was Ron who loved you but you didn't love him. Suppose poor Ronald Weasley—not half as handsome nor a third times as rich—abducted you, tricked you, killed dozens of wizards and witches in his life time without one flicker of regret... Do you think Witch Weekly would be petitioning for his cause? Do you think there'd be fliers and protests outside the Ministry for Ron if he had done everything Draco had?"

He dropped the sugary tone, just as he dropped his false, sympathetic smile. His face was a harsh composition of sharp lines and shadowed planes; his voice a bitter landscape of grating chords and sharp notes.

"No. No fucking way. People are fucking hypocrites, Hermione. People barely blinked when they heard that Ron died. Those same people are practically sobbing because Draco Malfoy just might get a punishment he deserves.

"And why? Because Draco is Draco. Because people misinterpret his selfishness as devotion. Because people misinterpret his cold blooded calculating as admirable prowess.

"And I never thought you'd be one of those hypocrites."

"I did more than blink," Hermione told him tremulously. She had to argue, though her heart was bleeding. She had to argue, because, even though some part of her whispered to her _Harry's right_, another part said that she was Hermione Granger, and he had no right to speak to her as if she were the criminal. "Don't you dare say I didn't care."

"Past tense, is it?" he remarked wryly, and stood up abruptly. "Don't you ever think?"

It seemed to be the only thing she could do lately. She understood what he was attempting, acidly, to convey.

Identity had no role in justice. Or rather, identity _shouldn't have_ had a role in justice.

She just...just hadn't wanted to think of Draco as a criminal, that's all. Because...well, because she loved him.

But people loved Voldemort, hadn't they? People worshiped the ground that bastard walked on. People misinterpreted his wishes of genocide for noble purging. It didn't mean that what he had done was right. It didn't mean that whatever criminals had attempted was justified.

No...it was too much of a stretch, to compare Draco to Voldemort. Voldemort did his abominable crimes because he was full of hate, full of prejudice, was blind to everything but his own distorted ambition. Draco committed his infamous deeds because he loved her.

Damn. It didn't sound so justifiable in her own mind either.

"Suppose Malfoy hadn't attacked from below," Harry continued conversationally, strolling slowly to the door. "Suppose those entangled with the Death Eaters in the dungeon were available to help us in the Great Hall?"

Hermione grit her teeth. "What are you playing at?"

He shrugged as, with his foot, he nudged open the door. "Nothing. I just think it a shame that Malfoy saw fit to distract those who could have assisted Ron and myself above. Ron, obviously, could have used the aid."

She was furious. "You're trying to manipulate me! You're trying to convince me to not love him!"

Harry spared her a cold, amused smile. "Manipulate you?" He tasted the words. "It seems to be the only way to reach you, now."

Hermione watched him gently closed the door, and irrationally felt something terrible would happen if she let it end like this. An inexplicable panic filled her as it nearly clicked shut.

"Harry," she called out, the mere name thick with emotion.

He did not enter, but the door did not close, his shadow lingering in the faint light the opening allowed. He waited for her to continue, while she scrambled for the right words to say.

"I can't help but love him," she said helplessly. "I can't help it." It felt oddly like apologising for an irrevocable fact. She might as well have apologised for the darkness of the night sky.

She heard a wild, tired laugh, and the door fell open with a threatening creak. She heard his foot steps as the thick soles of his shoes met the hard wood floor, coming just a little bit farther in, coming in one last time for this emotional battle, and heard his words as the words fell solemnly from his cynical mouth.

"Do you think he's worthy?"

She had the gall to roll her eyes, too bright in the darkness, and smiled in a vain attempt to right this wrong between them. "Don't be a snob, Harry. People change."

"He hasn't. He doesn't want to." He spoke factually. "You wouldn't want him to, if you love him so much."

That "if" seared through her, making her stiffen as if an unseen blade had stabbed at her. Swallowing the silly lump of tears in her throat, she fiddled with her scars on the otherwise smooth skin of her arms.

She thought it was the end of the conversation; she thought Harry had given up, acknowledged the stale mate. He did not want her to forget Ron, to move on, to love their enemy. She could not shake off the feeling that Ron was gone, just as she could not shake the feeling that, manipulated or not, she loved Draco.

"He doesn't deserve you."

Her palm pressed on one smooth ridge of skin, feeling its sister scars under her finger tips and wrist. Several uniform cuts left their memories on her skin, and she felt the souvenirs with more shame now, in this room with Harry, than ever before.

Hermione shook her head. It was a disagreement, though for what she was not sure.

"I'm sorry for calling you a hypocrite," he apologised quietly. He shuffled, not unlike a young man who'd been reminded he was not quite so adult as he thought. Harry looked so...young. Almost ashamed, surprised, of the words that had just spewed from his mouth. "I just...he's never done anything, Hermione. He's never done anything worthy of you."

"And Ron had." It was an empty statement, not a challenge. Harry answered nevertheless.

"Possibly. Never really had the chance, though, did he?" With those contemplative words, Harry shrugged again, shoulders rising and falling into that annoyingly hunched stance, and then closed the door behind him.

Damn him. Damn him and all his pontificating. She would not be swayed into hatred; though, she was forced to admit quietly, Draco did deserve it.

Her fingers brushed against the papers, and she leaned towards the light to better view the picture. In it, Draco was surrounded by guards, photographers, journalists, and fans while being escorted into the Ministry. His handsome face was twisted slightly with disdain.

He wasn't sorry.

Because he got what he wanted.

Damn it.

Hermione threw the papers into the chair Harry had vacated and switched off the lamp. She definitely couldn't sleep now.

xoxox

**And not my eyes  
To navigate the darkness**

**Hoobastank, Crawling in the Dark**


	11. The New Flow

**Kou Shun'u**: I do feel so incredibly happy whenever a reader points out the parts of the story they particularly liked. I did feel a little guilty for adding that "the one ring to rule them all" bit, because that was my own personal taste influencing the fic. I'm not overly concerned if you don't review; as long as you read it and enjoyed then I'm glad.

**Word E. Smith**: I'll thank you here for reviewing Saying Sorry, because one-shots can't suddenly have two chapters, no matter how much the author wants to thank her reviewers. I'm glad you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. And I guess the argument subject was a bit ridiculous, but I couldn't very well have them argue anything incredibly major...otherwise a silly little list wouldn't have fixed it! I do feel the honor of being faved, and thanks so much again!

**Cat: **Thank you for the continued support. More twists to come, I should think. I can only hope all those lol's, and wink winks can only mean that you were really joking. I mean, come on. I didn't write all that so people could say "Doesn't matter, he's handsome, screw all sensible character developments." Really, really really hope you were joking. Because, seeing as how you're so bent on Draco and Hermione, I can't imagine how devastated you'd be if it didn't turn out that way. I know that some people don't mind the way I use Americanized words, it's just it doesn't seem very loyal to the book if Ron went and said "Sweater" and stuff like that. Thanks for all the help though!

**Makotojs**: Very interesting name. On a more pertinent note, you only gave two words but they were enough. I got all "smiling like an idiot" in front of my computer, causing more than one family member to ask me what was wrong. So, in short, thanks for the sweet compliment, and I hope you like the rest.

**smaloukis**: Oh dear. I got such a nice review from you and then I got you hooked and then I took forever and a day to post. It can't be helped. I can only hope the wait wasn't too agonizing (my oh my it sounds like I have such an arrogant attitude for my own fanfic! As if a wait for this stupid chapter would be agonizing!) and thanks for the self esteem booster-uppers!

**Drayvinio**: Thank you for the nice review. I can only hope your good opinion stays that way, good, I mean. I kinda feel bad when people say "Can't wait" or "Dying for next chapter" because...maybe you've noticed...but I tend to keep my readers waiting. Very sorry! Unchangeable circumstances! Thank you, though, for giving your time and opinions!

**Delovely**: Good lord, I couldn't imagine staying away from my computer for more than two days! I think that shows a lack of life on my part...well never mind. Yes, it was a long conversation, wasn't it? Who knew that teenage boys were so talkative? I tried to have the whole Harry-Voldemort showdown to be unique. I've read many takes on that inevitable event, and the whole "battle on a mental plane" thing seemed to be a bit original. Also, I did not, not, not like the idea of Harry or Voldemort dying by an Unforgivable Curse. They both seem way too important to die in such a silly way. Well, not silly...maybe I meant common. Yes, you seem to be the only one to comment on his lack of scar. Never fear; he still has his trademark glasses. And cute bum. :0)

**instar**: Shucks...don't know what to say. I've never had my story called "read-on-y" and I rather like that description! That was really funny about the drunken lemming story. It reminds me of that quote: "One hundred thousand lemmings can't be wrong." Graffito. I was a bit lost on the whole accent thing, but I think I grasped the gist of it. I don't know how American English compares to English English, but, naturally, I'm more partial to American English. I'm sure your bf went to a more interesting part of the US than where I am, because nothing in my stupid town is "wicked." Thanks for all the help, and thanks again for the review!

**Kat6528: **Aw, gee, I'm glad you enjoyed it so much. And also, I'm extra glad that you noticed there's everything in it. It's why I put general as the first category; I wanted to have a well rounded story. Sorry to keep you waiting for forever and a day, and thank you for the nice review!

**patagonia**: Uh...amazing? Yeah, pretty sure it's a few inches short of amazing. Entertaining, maybe, mildly interesting, possibly, but I wouldn't go far as say that it's amazing. None of us know how it will end, after all. I might totally screw that part of the story up, and then you'll regret ever calling it amazing. This is my strange and stupid way of saying thank you for all the nice things you wrote.

Is it weird that I never thought of the possible plot line where Draco killed Ron? I think so. In my mind, the two don't even have much interaction. Plus (and this is my bias-ness slipping in) I don't think Draco could take Ronald Weasley. Ronald Weasley would have to be killed for something great (like a war or saving orphanages from a burning building), and not for some stupid albino ferret like Draco Malfoy.

People did seem to enjoy that part about the clichés. Every time somebody mentions it, I do feel a little bit guilty (only a little bit. The rest of me laughs maniacally!) because I do enjoy some of those plot devices. It's just that there are so MANY of those types of stories, without any credible explanation as to WHY Draco would do all those things or WHY Dumbledore would see Draco and Hermione as perfect project partners. It had to be commented on, it just had to be.

And usually, I react with an unpleasant feeling whenever my readers tell me what to do with my stories. For example; if somebody tells me not to kill so-and-so, I will be inclined to ponder that character's demise. I do not like it when somebody tells me flat out what to do, and who so-and-so should end up with, as if I had not written the past chapters without their help and could do without thank you very much.

BUT...because you mentioned the fact that my Ron is lovely, I'm having an unusual response, and no negative feelings whatsoever. While it doesn't effect the outcome of the story whatsoever, I do appreciate it. Mostly because I Love Ron very much, and my partiality tends to take over my typing. God, what I wouldn't give to just kill Draco off and have Ron and Hermione live happily ever after!

In response to your review of Saying Sorry: I'm glad you liked it! I had more fun writing that (there was no pressure, no twisty plots, no researching!) than this. Also, I dislike the Ron-Hermione fics in which Harry disappears entirely. I thought it'd be fun to show Harry and Ron as two normal teenage boys who do normal teenage asinine things! Thanks for reviewing both fics!

**windkull: **I was very pleased to hear that the last chapter was not what you expected. I really sort of cringe when somebody says "Yeah, saw that coming." I take predictability to be a sign of decay. And, gasp! Hermione deciding to forgive Draco? What a travesty of the wizarding justice system that would be! Yes, the Harry-Voldemort situation is a bit weird, even for my twisty imagination, and I'll contemplate clarifying that later down the road...this is a Hermione fic, though, so I don't know if he'll be high priority. Thank you for writing your reviews!

**Oli: **Thanks for the Happy birthday! Yes, drama in all caps, that's very fitting. I'm glad this new Harry has had such a warm reception. And hey, I didn't think the bravery from the books was stupid! Slightly impetuous, yes, and true, his bravery wasn't always the best reaction...alright, maybe Harry suffered from the stupid bravery in the books. But at least he's a little bit smarter in this fanfic! I'll refrain from huggling Draco (my you're loyal!). I did mention it (I wouldn't want to accuse anybody of being unobservant, considering I forget where the keys are as they sit in the ignition). Hermione mentioned, in the first chapter, how she was eighteen and married. She, of course, was a few months off, considering her memory loss. It's like this.

Seventh year, December: War began.

Following December: War ended.

January through July: Involuntary stay with Draco.

July through present chapter: Post Draco recovery.

So, if all had gone the way it should have, without the war or anything, Harry and the Scooby gang would be graduated and beginning real jobs or in their second year of university. That's on the assumption that they all would have graduated at the age of seventeen. Now, they're maybe nineteen or twenty years old. Harry, Ron, Hermione, etc...they'd be celebrating their eighteenth birthdays during the war. Sorry I didn't elaborate that, and maybe I'll add something later.

You know how I feel about you being Australian (so very very very cool! I met some Australians in France this past summer, and they were really friendly! Plus I loved their accents!) And here I was, thinking that you were free from all exams. Oh well, we'll suffer together, twitching and all!

**Kaylee-Angel**: Hiya right back! Thank you for volunteering! And I hope I haven't set a standard for myself. Twists and surprises are well and good, but I can't honestly say that they'll be continuous. They're a little exhausting to write, after all. I really appreciate the review, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Athena Linborn: **Hmm's make me nervous. It's always something like "Hmm, I know you stole my erasers" or "Hmm, you still owe me ten bucks." But I like "Hmm, interesting chapter."

There is more to come on Ron's condition and Harry's spell, but in small doses. Hermione's a wee bit reluctant to know about it, really. Thanks so much for all the help concerning British words, and if I ever slip up, I'd really appreciate it if you told me. Thanks again for everything!

**Crystallized Snow: **Hey! I guess it is rather complicated when you read all ten chapters at once. I'm glad that I kept Draco bastard-y without making him maniacal villain-y. I do hate the fics where they vilify Ron, Harry, or Draco without any believable motivations or causes to support that characterization. And while I don't believe cruelty is a great reason to love a guy, I do understand what you mean. After all the sunny do-gooder attitude of everybody else in Hogwarts, I guess meanness is a breath of fresh air.

I didn't know J.K. Rowling wanted them together! I would have thought she would add some new twist; it just seems too obvious to have them end up together. Like that whole "I thought Snape was the bad guy" in the first book. Maybe she's been making us believe they'll end together, so that we'll all gasp in surprise when Hermione marries Neville or something like that. Thanks for the review, and I hope this chapter is up to par with the rest (probably not!)

**Dastardly Snail: **Actually, it's getting a little bit chilly on my side of the country. Yes, I guess people would be a little startled about the changes in Harry, but I had to be realistic. Lots of people, Harry especially, would be changed by a war. I don't like Ginny, period, whether she believed Hermione or not. As for the conversation, or that last one in particular, well...Harry's not one for bull shit is he? Besides, one must remember that Harry bore the brunt of Draco's bullying during the seven year stay at Hogwarts, so it's understandable that he'll hate the ferret, just a little bit. And, while I appreciate democracy and fair elections and all that...I don't think I'll hold voting. I wouldn't be able to bear the fact that, if I chose to shape the story around a majority's opinion, there'll still be that minority of my readers who won't be satisfied. So, I'll just be very dictator-y of it all and choose an ending that most pleases me.

And, I won't be adding anything to Saying Sorry, so I'll just respond to you here. Thank you! I liked the irony of Ron using movie quotes even though he's never seen one (and even though his character is one, three, technically...) Are you taking that "cat choked on it and died" from Men in Tights? Because that's what I thought of, when you mentioned it...Thank you for both reviews!

**spawn32818: **Oh yay! I really don't like it when one of my reviewers up and die. It decreases the statistics (just kidding! Just kidding! Life is way more important than reviews!) Yes, I do feel a little bit bad for Harry for making him endure so many traumatic events...but only a little. He's the boy who lived, after all. He can't be a pansy just because he's had one craptacular life. I also hope you can make it until the next chapter...in fact, I'll keep my fingers crossed that you'll live until the end of the fic. Longer, really, since it would be such a shame to have such a short life...I'll stop babbling and leave you to reading. Thanks again!

**Monkeystarz:** I'm so glad you adore it, even though the plot keeps thickening! And I did make Harry somewhat different, but only because I assumed that war and hiding has changed him a bit. Also because he's the one character I don't really understand out of the whole thing. I mean, yeah, he's the main character of the books, but he's so full of potential, both bad and good, that one does not really know how Harry would deal with a post-Voldemort world. Speaking of Harry...because I am nineteen, I don't know if it's right to say that Daniel Radcliffe is hot...but if I were his age...yes he is. Very much. Gorgeous blue eyes. But, since I'm way older, I won't be a cradle robber and comment on his hotness. AND...I am so happy that you noticed that the old Harry shone through. I knew he had to be grown up, but I also tried to remember that he was only a teenager, and wouldn't be a real adult yet.

And, since there won't be a follow up to Saying Sorry, I'll write my response to you here. I thoroughly enjoyed writing it (my mind wouldn't let me write anything else until that little one shot was done!) and I thoroughly enjoyed the fact that others thoroughly enjoyed it too. I'm sorry I made you look like a green headed moose (though what an interesting sight that would be!) but I can't say sorry for the fact that you laughed that loud. It made me all happy. It would have been a much more interesting had Ron cried "But they'll never take our freedom!" but I highly doubt that would have caused forgiveness. Crazy looks (maybe like the one your dad gave you) but not forgiveness! Thanks for reviews on both stories!

**Onion Layers**: Oh I'm sorry! I didn't mean to imply that I didn't appreciate the "hilarious" description! Still, I liked the added adjectives! You still want Draco to win? Pretty sure Hermione wouldn't like that wording:0) Well, I won't comment on who'll win and who'll lose (mostly because I don't know, but I'll just pretend like I do to act secretive) I seem to be getting mixed reactions about Harry-Hermione interaction. Some people say it was off, and other's say it was perfect. I dunno, I guess I'll lean towards the more flattering opinion! A break from Draco was very necessary for Hermione; who could really think clearly, I'd like to know, with Draco Malfoy trying to be seductive all the time? It's very distracting. I'm sorry for the extended waits between chapters, but I think they'll be about a 1-2 week wait in between until winter break. Sorry! Oh and thanks again, no matter what word choice you choose!

**sugar n spice 522: **Thanks for the would-be-help-if-only-you-were-british! I appreciate the sentiment. I know that some people don't mind the nonbritish words, but I guess I'm just anal about that. It's that whole article in Newsweek (? Or something like that) that got me annoyed. You know, about how they were Americanizing the British lingo in the Harry Potter books for the states, because they thought the readers wouldn't use the context clues to understand what Ron meant when he said "Nutter" and stuff. I got really irritated with that, so I try to stay true to the whole British perspective (try and fail probably!) Thank you for the "extremely good" and the "well written" and that you "love it." I couldn't ask for anything more!

**paul is dead: **Oh, I love Harry too! Not as much as I love Hermione and Ron, but still, I think he's great, despite his scary occasional PMS during book five. I thought it would be a bit much (nice, but still a bit much) to have Harry support Hermione and her Draco-loving ways (I don't know why she loves him either. There's no accounting for taste, I suppose.) I was a tiny bit apprehensive how people would handle the nonexistent Draco-ness, but I'm glad you guys didn't mind so much. She needed a breather, after all! I'm also glad for your little comment about how this stupid fic works well with the books. That part, about Dumbledore smiling, when he heard Harry talk about that whole Voldemort's resurrection thing? It totally scared me! I really panicked! I don't want Dumbledore to be evil! So I had to add an explanation of that smile during Harry's explanation to Hermione. I am so happy you enjoyed the Ron-Hermione moments! I thought it would be a little weird—it being in dream format and all—but I guess it wasn't too bad! Thanks again! I feel all nice and fuzzy inside—something I'll guess is the effect of really great reviews, and not a medical problem...

**Otakuannie: **I had no idea Canada was still a part of the British Common Wealth. Thanks for the educational tid bit! Don't fret about the growing twisty-ness. Everything will become untangled and smooth and twist-free in due time...just not any time soon. To tell ya the truth; that whole "The End" thing does sound very tempting. I'm not used to having so many people have such high expectations for my stories. It's all very scary! Thanks again for all the lovely compliments! Even though you always say them, I still always appreciate every time. And you're fifty percent right. I did plan it all out...up to a certain point. After a certain event, I don't know exactly what to do with it! Which is why, I guess, I'm really nervous about it all. I do try to make things interesting, but I fear I'm teetering towards predictability. I don't like twisting the plot for the sake of twisting the plot after all; I'd like for things to remain plausible. Thanks so much for all the great reviews and compliments! They make me feel like I haven't screwed everything up (yet!)

The Painted Past

Chapter 11

**Of all the animals,**

xoxox

Two days crept by as Hermione and Harry lived in relative peace. The fog, being so fond of London, did not lift from the city and the sun, being so shy of Fog, did not bother to clear it. For that, Hermione was happy. And it was the only thing in this chaotic and deceitful world with which she agreed.

George, pretending to be Fred, stopped by unexpectedly at an ungodly hour on the third day after Harry's sudden appearance. His arrival was so unexpected and exceedingly quiet that Harry did not have time to don his invisibility cloak.

"Blimey!"

"Oh hell!"

Those were the sweet sounds that awoke a grumpy Hermione, and the ensuing ruckus was enough to drag her from her bed and out into the hall way. Once there, her bleary vision took in the sight of George, wearing an F marked knit cap, and Harry, barely wearing his cloak. Bits and pieces of him faded out of sight as he, red faced, stood silently and endured the twin's roaring.

It was not roaring, Hermione realised as she stepped closer. It was scolding.

George Weasley was scolding. Somebody else.

Hermione glanced out the windows, just in case the porcine had taken flight.

"Do you have any bloody idea how worried we've all been?" George demanded, pacing before the chastised boy. "Do you even know how many times we've searched lakes and ditches and shallow graves in hopes of finding your body? Not even a note, Harry! Not even a good bye! What is it? What was so damn important that you couldn't even tell your family that you'd be gone for eight bloody months!"

Despite his tone, his scary expression, and the overall strangeness of the situation, Hermione smiled wanly. George considered the Weasleys to be Harry's family, even in the reddest of rages.

The unofficial family member was not so touched by this tender inclusion. "Fred," Harry began desperately, apparently fooled by the apparel, "listen—"

"I'm George, you little—Merlin, I don't know what you are, but it's bad, Harry. Trust me, it's very bad."

"George, then," he amended apologetically, "I—"

"How selfish, how completely cruel to Ginny! If you weren't so weak and feminine I'd teach you a lesson—"

Hermione was relieved that Harry ignored the insult. "George, I had to do something—"

"Oh, you had to do something, did you? So you just decided to forget the fact that my family, your family, and every single body's fucking family were worried about you? That we lost sleep, blood, men looking for you! That we had questioned the alibis and honours of any suspicious characters when regarding your fate? Forgetting all that just to get something done, did you? It's not just selfish, Harry, it's...it's...it's bloody Slytherin!"

Time to put a stop to this, Hermione decided, before George decided to forget Harry's "feminine weakness" and physically punish him any way.

"George," Hermione sighed, stepping closer.

"Not now, Hermione," George bellowed, tossing a wrapped basket in her direction. Hermione barely caught it. "And cover yourself up before this—this _creature_ sees your state of undress."

"George, please calm down," she pleaded softly, and set the basket of goods on the kitchen table. "Harry has a good explanation."

"Good explanation my ar—"

"George!"

George glanced angrily at the girl, who wore Ron's Quidditch practice shirt like a short dress. Then he swung his gaze to Harry, who clutched the cloak around his shoulders defensively. Hermione didn't blame Harry for his fear. No one had ever seen either of the twins so livid.

"Oh hell," George growled resignedly, and suddenly gripped Harry's arm. It was a testament to Harry's maturity, Hermione noticed, when he simply let himself be dragged closer. Hermione sighed in relief when George quickly engulfed Harry in a massive hug, followed by a punch in his arm and a ruffle of his hair. "You're such a wanker," George muttered darkly, but with noticeable happiness, "you're lucky I don't hit girls."

"Thanks, I guess," Harry replied, rubbing his arm with thinly concealed pain. "And, seeing that you're here at..." Harry fumbled with his glasses to focus on a clock, "You're here at five in the morning? What, are you nocturnal or something?"

"Guess we both deal with bad timings, don't we?" George rejoined smartly. Harry rolled his eyes, and bade them both to sit on the infamous couch of drowning. "Hermione?" George wheedled. "Some tea would be nice."

Hermione was in no mood to deal with macho demands. "Yes," she agreed as she sank against the cushions, "wouldn't it?"

George muttered some anti-feminist words as he conjured three steaming cups of comfort.

"I was preparing to do something illegal," Harry said, short and to the point. "Now that I'm prepared, I need Hermione and Malfoy's help, except Hermione's wandless and he's been imprisoned."

"As he should be!" George piped up. "Do you have any idea what he's done to her?"

"I'm going to get Ron back," Harry said bluntly. "Not from the dead. From some place that shouldn't exist. All right?"

George stared, understandably shocked. Hermione stared as well, equally shocked, and was surprised by the condensation of the tale. Her shock grew enough to transform into paralysis when George, from beside her, laughed and clapped his hands.

"Brilliant! You're forgiven! Any way I can help?"

"You're not serious," Hermione breathed, and shifted to stare at the red haired wonder of imbecility. "Surely, you have questions...suspicions...doubts?"

"No," George answered with a "Isn't life great?" shrug.

Hermione counted to ten very slowly, reminding herself that hurting this Weasley would solve nothing. It would make her feel better, but still, it would solve nothing. "George...for all you know, Harry might be a Death Eater back from the dead!"

"Hermione," Harry warned softly, nervously fingering his sleeve covered arm.

"But he's not," George said cheerfully. "He's the bloody Boy Who Lived, and he's going to get Ron back. Aren't you?"

Harry, only too thrilled to finally find a solid ally in his endeavor, nodded with a smile worthy of champions. Hermione had been ready to spout another load of reasons why one should not trust the returning hero when Harry cut her off. "But it must be done secretly. So you can't tell the rest of your family."

George appeared dubious, and Hermione felt the faint glimmer of hope that somebody found this ridiculously risky. Then the twin, after weighing the pros—Ron back and breathing—and cons—Ron not back and not breathing—suddenly smiled. "Of course. It'll be a surprise."

"And in order for things to go smoothly, we'll need Malfoy out of jail."

George nodded, deep in thought. Then he looked casually at Hermione. "You'll drop the charges, eh?"

"George! After what he's done to me!"

"And then put him back in jail, I meant," George explained easily. It was the underlying malice beneath his nonchalant tone that stopped Hermione cold. The twin continued, "We'll just let him walk a bit, and then you'll remember that he...I dunno...raped you or something."

"But he didn't," Hermione protested softly, disliking the casual manner George used to discuss a man's fate.

"More or less, he did," George corrected. "He tricked you, didn't he? It's the same as slipping a drug into your drink. He got you into an unnatural state of mind, and then he raped you."

"Are you mad?" she demanded. "It's...unethical to say such a thing."

"So I reckon it was ethics that made that bastard kidnap you and trick you?"

"What he did does not make what you're suggesting right!"

Unable to deny the immorality of his impromptu plan, George shrugged. "No, probably not. Then again, ethics aside, we'd get Ron back, wouldn't we?"

"So the end justifies the means," Hermione mocked, her words clipped and icy.

"Basically yeah," George said. Hermione was wrong, she realised, when she originally believed that the war hadn't affected the twins. Whatever the dark wizards had done to them, it had been brutal and cruel; horrible enough to think that this was all right.

Surprisingly enough, it was Harry who spoke up. "Now who's being Slytherin?" he asked, faintly displeased. Only faintly, Hermione noticed. George sat untouched by their censures, and Hermione, though she knew it to be futile, added:

"It's not right, George."

"Define right," he propositioned with a smirk.

"It's too early," Harry groaned, and rubbed at his eyes. George, after regaining his smile, promptly lost it once more when he studied his old friend.

"Harry! Your scar! It's gone!"

"Oh no," Harry replied flatly, "is it really? Drat, I must have lost it in the loo."

"Is that sarcasm?" George demanded. The younger of the three were strongly reminded of Molly Weasley. "Are you being sarcasmic with me?"

"Actually, it's sarcastic, George..._George_!"

Hermione should have known that George knew the proper adjective formation. And she should have known that George, giddy from the news of his returning little brother, had excess energy. And, above all, she should have known that he was a violent idiot and Harry, despite his recently dark past, was not immune to idiotic violence.

George rugby tackled Harry, and Harry, always so eloquent, grunted a "Jesus Christ!" as they landed on the coffee table. As they hit the surface, they then broke said table, without an ounce of remorse. If anything, the destruction further served to George's fun, for he grabbed a now unattached table leg and brandished it menacingly over Harry's head.

Just as Harry earlier protested, Hermione decided it was far too early for such nonsense.

The table leg was dropped heavily on Harry's vulnerable stomach when Hermione marched over and pinched George's left earlobe tightly.

George howled in pain. "Damn Hermione! Even mum doesn't pinch that hard!"

She was merciless, and dragged George up and off Harry's wheezing form. Once free of the conqueror, Harry curled up and coughed violently, all the while clutching his abdomen.

"Look what you did!" she hollered. Hermione was painfully aware of how silly it was, to be separating two brawling boys—no, _young men_ at five o'clock in the morning just after a serious conversation of ethics. Painfully aware and damned annoyed.

"It's all right," Harry chuckled in between coughs. "Just got the wind knocked out of me."

"Hermione, see? He's all right—yeeow! Damn it all, woman, you'll tear it off!" Hermione spitefully twisted the lobe, and George was near tears.

"In an entirely different context," Harry said calmly, and picked himself up, "that sounds very painful." With very little effort and a lot of soothing words, Harry managed to wrest Hermione's hand away from George's vicinity.

"Whatever the context," George complained, nursing the tender spot, "it's still painful. And to think, I came bearing gifts."

He gestured to the basket, which she had forgotten. Harry eagerly unwrapped the package and practically salivated at the sight of home made crumpets and a bottle of spirits. Within minutes, both boys had their cheeks stuffed and were vying for a scrape of jam.

"You're not eating, Mione? Ginny sent them. She sent a note as well, which she told me not to read, and it says that she's sorry for the misunderstanding and could you still be friends?" George asked.

Hermione, too exhausted for words, merely shook her head and trudged slowly back to her room. It had been an incredible morning. As she settled back into sleep, Hermione supposed she should have been grateful that it was George who had come, and not Ginny herself. If that had been the scenario, Harry would have earned himself a great deal more injuries.

Later that morning, Hermione emerged from the shower and immediately noticed the tell tale noises of another tussle. She did not hurry to dress, however, for she theorized that both boys needed some of their normal, moronic fisticuffs. After all, the only smaller sibling left to harass was Ginny, and, luckily for her, neither George nor Fred was mean enough to engage her in wrestling matches. And Harry, who was always regarded as a legendary wizard to be respected and feared, needed a good beating once in a while, for humbling purposes.

"Look, Mione," George pointed out childishly, "Harry broke the china!"

"George broke the drinking glasses!"

"Harry broke the wine bottle!"

"George drank the wine!"

Hermione waved away the accusations as she rummaged for a breakfast.

"Grumpy in the mornings," George observed.

It was true. But Hermione thought her grumpiness quite justified, considering the early morning events. Plus, the sun decided to bully the bad weather away, and cheerful rays annoyingly shot through the entire flat.

"She needs a book, I wager," Harry said flippantly.

"She needs Ron," George corrected. Hermione glared.

"Lay off," Harry advised.

"Of course," George agreed easily. "We've got some time. Harry and I have concocted a plan, you see?"

"You're going to bust him out?" Hermione asked incredulously.

"Don't be silly," Harry laughed, though she noticed that he hadn't answered the question. "We've decided it will appear very strange for you to suddenly forgive him."

Finally. Somebody was making sense.

"So, you'll visit him over the next few months and then drop the charges around November. We'll say something about how he gradually gained your forgiveness and all that. That way, people will—"

"No way in hell, Harry," Hermione replied, taking the conversational tone Harry had used to discuss another man's fate.

"I thought you might say that. So, that leaves plan B. This includes..."

Hermione stopped listening at that point. It was far too early and far too silly to listen to convoluted plans that no doubt included hair raising twists and unnecessary danger. Without so much as a good bye, Hermione left them to their own devices again, and emerged from her bedroom ten minutes later, refreshed and determined.

George and Harry, quietly engaged in an intense game of Exploding Snap, turned to her in surprise. Though the outfit of faded jeans and a white t-shirt did not exactly scream plans of destruction, Hermione's formidable expression was enough to instill enough wariness in the two boys.

"Big plans, Mione?" George asked casually.

"Yes. Getting back into the new flow of things," she explained with a shrug. The twin nodded and Harry continued to appear dubious.

"What, exactly?"

"Must I gain your approval?" she teased as she quickly finished a crumpet.

He shrugged and gazed at his hands sullenly. "I was just asking."

"Of course you were, dear," she laughed in a motherly tone, and noticed his neatly combed hair. Impulsively, she neared the two and ruffled the black locks so that Harry took on the appearance of electrocution.

"Oy! It took eternity to get it looking right," he complained.

"If you ask me, your head did look a bit wonky," George commented. Harry glared, and Hermione laughed as she left the flat.

Nearly four hours later, Hermione had reached the limit of her patience. Granted, she was very much aware that that virtue had been handicapped and abused for the last few months. It was a pity, for when dealing with an old man flirting with senility, one needed to hold a sharp tongue.

"For the last time Dumbledore," Hermione issued in a steely tone, "I do not want any candy."

Dumbledore nodded as if hearing her refusal for the first time instead of the fifth, and set the ancient bronze bowl on his desk.

If she was one hundred percent truthful, Hermione would have taken a two or three tokens of sugar. But grumpiness overrode honesty, and Hermione was adamant after a whirl wind day of new flow-gaining. This task included the purchases of a wand, a broom, a belated birthday card for Ginny, and some food for Crookshanks. There was also the nauseating feat of avoiding paying the fines at the Ministry, and renewing her several magic licenses. The officials at the Ministry were verily terrified by her attitude, which was based on the simple "I am Hermione Granger" idea. She was not particularly proud of her behaviour, nor of her threats of contacting Arthur Weasley, but some things just had to be done without politeness.

Now she sat before her former headmaster in his nearly finished office. Any sign of its former destruction was minimal; a misplaced tapestry, new shelves, and the malfunction of some of his contraptions. The owner himself was almost exactly as he was before the war began.

"So what brings you to Hogwarts, Miss Granger? I used to be able to count on alumni returning for pleasant memories but...but this generation endured something stronger, didn't they?"

"I don't have time for deep reminiscing," she said evenly. "I would just like to know my status."

"Status?"

"Yes. Am I a graduated student or must I..." she swallowed the bile before continuing with reluctance, "repeat a year?"

"Oh. _That_ status." Dumbledore shuffled to his chair and popped a toffee into his mouth. He appeared thoughtful, which was not out of the norm and did not bother Hermione one bit. If she had graduated, all for the better. If she hadn't, she would simply have to make do.

"Due to the circumstances, nobody, of course, was able to take the final exams. At least, the traditional ones. After our victory, the board and I managed to compromise the standard course for our distracted students."

"Which was?"

"It was a bit unorthodox, I confess. To have the students tested first and then producing the test later," Dumbledore continued calmly. "But nobody complained. Except for a few Ravenclaws, but there's no pleasing them academically," he confided with a small smile, and Hermione was surprised to find herself grinning in response.

"The test," she prompted, with a gentler tone.

"Hmm? Oh, of course. The test was simple: those who fought in the war passed with flying colours. Those who did not failed, but not without a good effort. They were offered an extra credit assignment."

For a moment, Hermione could not speak. In fact, breathing itself became a bit too complicated to grasp. Then, she gathered her thoughts, put a strong restraint on her indignation, and said:

"That? _That_ was the culmination of all our seven years studies?"

Dumbledore gave something close to a _harrumph_. "I've heard enough from the Ravenclaws, Miss Granger," he reminded her with an irked frown. "But, in fairness, we offered a short graduation program during winter break after the war for the seventh year students who truly desired to earn their way out. A summer program was also offered to the other students who did not want to repeat themselves. Miss Weasley, in fact, took advantage of such a opportunity."

Hermione frowned. She would have liked to finish her seventh year. She would have liked it very much, in fact, had not a silly little thing like abduction had gotten in her way.

"Naturally, some Ravenclaws participated in both programs and were still appalled by the lack of challenge. Many Beauxbatons came as well, but there is no, you and I both know, pleasing them."

"Of course," she laughed.

"All graduation paperwork has been sent last month. We've withheld those who could not receive it, and, if you prefer, I will continue possession of yours until you become settled." Hermione nodded gratefully, instantly ashamed of her sharp tone earlier.

"And," she ventured timidly, "is it possible to depend on your recommendation letter?"

"Of course," he agreed, "and I'll give you a list of professors willing to do the same."

"But I have a list of teachers I plan to ask," she assured him. Really. She had planned her university career since beginning of sixth year...well. Perhaps even earlier than that. Perhaps since the cradle.

Dumbledore nodded, and said in a softer voice, "I'll just give you a revised copy."

"Revised," Hermione laughed. "With all due respect, sir, I have revised and reviewed my own list many times and I'm quite sure that my choices will give the most articulate, accurate, and admirable letters if I asked them..."

And it was the first time she had ever seen the full effect of the war in his ancient eyes.

"And if they were all alive," she corrected herself with a bittersweet smile. Hermione sunk back in her chair, and nodded her head in acceptance. "I'll just pick up that list next week."

"Oh, no need Miss Granger, no need. I can arrange it for you today—"

"I don't think I'm quite ready for it today, professor."

He only nodded regretfully much like Hermione did earlier. The former pupil felt unusually stupid, for it was only after a few minutes of thoughtful silence that she realised an anomaly.

"You said those who fought passed with flying colours?"

"Yes. I was always partial to that phrase 'flying colours,' for it reminds me of Fawkes when the sun hits his feathers just at the right angle—"

"Did that include _everybody_?" she interrupted in alarm.

"Yes. I admit, it's unfair. There were some students who did not possess the physical or magical capabilities, so we implemented a 'if your heart was in it' , in some wizards' opinion, but it had to be used for the disabled and the pacifists—"

"Did that include the Death Eaters?"

Dumbledore slowly unwrapped another candy. "If they fought, yes."

"You gave the bastards who betrayed the wizarding world, plus this school, passing marks?"

"Not the words I would use, exactly—"

"But they tried to destroy Hogwarts," she protested, openly puzzled with his decision.

"True. But their actions in the last year did not erase the hard work they endured during the last six. They had every right to graduate, Hermione, no matter what their political beliefs."

"Oh yes," she agreed with a tiny bit of sarcasm, "just give those nutters a pass to uni, that's just brilliant."

"Insanity must not stand in the way of education," he replied without remorse.

Ha! She would have liked to see Fudge's reaction to that one.

"It's good to see you," Dumbledore said now, his voice dropping to a warmer tone. "You're looking much better."

"Thank you. You're looking...very much the same."

"At my age, that is considered a compliment."

"I miss Hogwarts," she confessed softly.

"We missed you," was the quiet reply. Hermione looked up from her clasped hands and stared at his grave face. She knew something important was to be said in the next few minutes. Whether she liked it or not.

Most likely not.

"I realise that we skipped the meaningful, encouraging, heart warming conversation that a wise old professor is supposed to give his distraught former student. The words I exchanged with Harry over the last year alone could fill an entire library." He sighed, and picked up his hat to scratch the balding head under it. "But, surely you know, Hermione, that you are very different. Very smart, very...you will always be remembered at Hogwarts, Hermione. Not only by the students, but by the teachers. Not only for your intelligence, but for your entire character. So you do not need the advice most women in your situation would need."

There were other women in her situation? Hermione was caustically irked that she hadn't been informed of that. Perhaps there was a need for socials and book clubs for all the hopeless females Draco happened to kidnap in the past year.

"So I cannot give anything that would be useful to you. Few people have, I imagine."

"Do you ever tire of being right?" Hermione propped her chin in her hand and avoided his eyes.

"If I said no, would that be the right answer?" he chuckled. "But, while I cannot offer any helpful words—though I do give the most wonderful conversation," Dumbledore added mischievously, "Hogwarts is open to you any time. As are our books, our instruments, our knowledge...anything you may need during this time of adjustment, you may have." She nodded solemnly, momentarily too moved to speak. "Now," he continued, abandoning his earnest timbre, "take advantage of this opportunity, for it is one given rarely. I believe the only time I've mistakenly—and vaguely, mind you—given the invitation of anything was to the Weasley twins. Please don't give me that lecture, for the professors still complain of it today." He shrugged innocently, much like Harry would when mentioning something enjoyable and illegal. "But they were so pitifully sad and out of place when they returned...frankly, I see no harm in the Chamber of Secrets' conversion into a Gryffindor swimming pool."

Hermione's eyes widened slightly at the thought of the twins _wanting_ that place where their only sister might have died. "No harm could possibly come out of that," she agreed with affectionate skepticism. Briskly, Hermione arose and shook his hand firmly. "Now, you said anything I want?"

"Don't make it sound so unlimited, please," he protested, eyes twinkling.

"Professor, I am in nowhere near wanting something extreme. I'd just like a monument of anybody I chose, in any place I chose." Dumbledore didn't bat an eye, and Hermione smiled. "I would also enjoy a tour of the grounds, however."

"You've spent seven years here and you'd like a tour of the grounds?" he teased as he grabbed a few wrapped candies for the road.

"It's different now," she murmured as she tucked her arm into his. "Everything's different now."

xoxox

It was after her quick lunch at a fast food restaurant that Hermione decided to make one more stop.

She had asked Dumbledore for the address, after giving him a warm good bye. Said address led her to a small but well kept town house, no more than forty five minutes away from her own complex. Hermione observed the historic architecture before climbing the steps, and decided that the squat, red, and friendly looking abode was perfect for her old friend's residence.

The door swung open before she could even knock, and Hermione found herself face to chest with a certain old school mate of hers.

"Hermione!" Seamus Finnigan cried and shook her hand heartily. They had never been close enough for hugs any way, though the boy came dangerously close when his hand reached out. She was relieved to find him patting her roughly on the back. "How have you been?"

"Very well," Hermione answered, regaining her shaken balance. "And you?"

He looked very much the same as he had in Hogwarts, except a bit taller and leaner. There was a barely discernible scar on his jaw, and a ridiculously large and shiny gold badge hanging around his neck, about the size of his open palm.

"Bloody great. Just finalized my investment of the Weasley's shop."

"And did you win that as a share holder?" she asked curiously, gesturing to the gaudy ornament around his neck. Seamus frowned and then laughed.

"'Course not. You got one too, of course. The highest honors, Hermione, c'mon! You were the first to receive it." Hermione had a terribly long time trying to understand before she read the badge itself. Draco had mentioned the Ministry inventing a new type of bravery badge... Seamus was still speaking.

"I don't normally wear it. But Neville's Grandmother is visiting today and he told me to look my best. Can't imagine anything bester than a war hero, eh?" Hermione shrugged helplessly, and winced at his poor grammar. "Did you see the last Quidditch match?"

She frowned slightly. "I've been a bit busy. Can I come in, or are social calls now held on the door mat?"

"Oh, of course. Neville's dusting for dear ol' Grams. I'll go get him."

"I'll just sit..." She glanced around the cluttered living room. Not an empty space on any of the furniture. "...when I leave and go home."

He was not offended and only laughed loudly at her comment. He disappeared up the stairs, taking them two by two as if racing an unseen competitor. A few minutes later, she heard a bellow and a replying bellow.

Neville bounded down the stairs, feather duster still in hand.

"Hermione!"

Although she did not mind the hug, it was a bit difficult to breathe with him clutching her like that. Also, dust was getting into her hair.

"You look wonderful!" Neville gushed as if she were his first date and not his friend and former commander.

"You too," she assured him.

"Are you staying? Grandmother would love to see you again."

"No, no, I haven't much time."

"Not even for a cuppa?" Seamus demanded as he jumped down the stairs.

"No, sorry, dear," Hermione apologised, feeling horrible, as if she were taking Christmas away from them. Out of all the people, she thought as they found places to sit on the furniture, these two seemed to be least changed by the war.

"So," Finnigan said more to the point, "then what are you here for?"

"Oh." _Well, that was blunt of him_, she thought mildly. "I was just wondering how on earth, Neville, did you know where to find me?"

Seamus laughed. "That's just like you, innit? To _have_ to know something."

Hermione sent him an impatient glance, and Seamus quieted like a reprimanded school boy.

Neville was more than willing to help his friend satisfy her burning curiosity. He spoke promptly, like a soldier ordered to report. "Oh. Well, one night, after some bad kous kous—"

"It wasn't bad," Seamus argued. "It smelled perfectly fine!"

"Really?" Neville argued. "Then why did you call in sick the next day and I had to take care of all your paper work?"

Seamus rolled his eyes expressively. "Because I was hung over from drinking with Luna! I told you this already!"

Hermione daintily cleared her throat.

"Right, after the supposedly not expired kous kous, I had a dream."

"Really? And the dream told of you the floating island's secret location?" Hermione finished with surprise. Since when did Neville Longbottom become gifted in Divination?

"No," Seamus shook his head. "He had a nightmare about cannibalistic mushrooms. Which was very stupid of him, if you dwell upon it, as cannibalistic mushrooms would only eat other mushrooms."

"That didn't mean you had to kick me into waking up," Neville said. He turned to Hermione with wide, hurt eyes. "Right in the ribs too! I was taking care of the fungus situation and this one here kicks me!"

"It's not like I couldn't," Seamus hurried to explain, as if Hermione would dole out a punishment for him. Which, if her prefect instincts had anything to say about it, she very much wanted to do. Hermione, however, refrained. "But the idiot was sleeping on the floor!"

"Because I fainted from the effects of bad kous kous!"

"Finnigan, Longbottom!" she very nearly shouted. Both quieted immediately.

Neville, however, continued after she prompted him to do so. "Oh, so Professor Snape came in and killed the mushrooms for me."

"How very gallant of him." Hermione did not comment on Longbottom's easy use of the very name that used to send shivers down his spine. Hermione herself felt some sadness for their shared loss, but it was faint and stale, having been felt for a very long time. Vaguely, she wondered who would take the new position as potions professor.

"Oh, I thought so too, until he told me he wouldn't have done it if he didn't need a favour. You were near Eerie Land, I thought he said. And I said, 'So?' because I had been taken off your case."

"Have you really?"

"Yes." At this point, Neville blushed adorably. "I sort of...that is, I did not mean to—"

"Neville dropped a candle on somebody's bed and set the bloody room on fire," Seamus finished with a rather impatient frown at his friend. "Thus destroying any evidence to be found there."

"Didn't mean to."

"You never mean to," Seamus shot back.

"The dream, please," Hermione sighed tiredly. Neville, overcoming his embarrassment, nodded.

"Then he threatened to bring the mushrooms back if I didn't listen, so I said all right. Of course, he said Ireland and not Eerie, but I hadn't figured that out until my trip back from the colonies—"

"The States, Neville," Seamus corrected with sigh. "The States. Just because dear old Grandmother hasn't bothered to learn the proper name, doesn't mean you ought to go around sounding antique."

"Aaah!" was Neville's sudden response at the mention of his relative. "Grandmother! The antique!"

"Now Neville," Seamus chuckled, "I didn't know you called her that too!"

"No you idiot, I haven't polished the antique grandfather clock! Oh no!" He was about to rush off like his arse was on fire, before he remembered his manners.

"It was very nice seeing you again, Hermione, and stop by any time."

Hermione thanked him warmly and watched with an amused smile as he ran off. Seamus renewed his offer for a cuppa, and Hermione was ready to agree when she found out she had sat on a piece of buttered toast. It was, she was certain, a sign to return home.

Where she spent two hours mixing and then baking a cake. Once she pulled the lop sided, strangely bumpy product from the stove, Hermione decided magic was the best way to go. For it would not do, she decided, to have such a deplorable culinary concoction for her best friend's belated birthday.

Ten minutes and nineteen spells later, she had surrounded herself with nineteen cakes, each a different flavor. Chocolate, cinnamon, vanilla, coffee, strawberry, strawberry short, angel, pound, marble swirl, lemon, pineapple upside down, rum, poppy, bunt, butterscotch, fruit, carrot, butter, and then red velvet.

Hermione was forced to augment the size of the kitchen table in order to accommodate all of them. She heard a _crack_ behind her as she surveyed the parade of sweets and did not turn. "George? Tell me which one Harry'd like best. I can't decide."

"All of them," the birthday boy said with awe. With a gasp, Hermione whirled to find the twin and her best friend observing the table with disturbing greed.

"George! You were supposed to keep him away!" Her plans of decoration were now a tremendous waste.

"What?" George said with alarmed innocence. "I did exactly what you said. I brought him home, and now I can help you prepare for the celebration."

Hermione leveled him with a patient glare. "How about you reverse those two and then try again?"

George muttered it, and he nodded. "Yeah, come to think of it, that does sound like a better plan."

Harry moved over to the cakes. "Doesn't matter. It's all okay. If we had arrived later, she might have picked one and made the other eighteen vanish."

"My gift to you on your nineteenth birthday isn't diabetes, Harry," Hermione scolded, after slapping his hands away.

"Aw, c'mon, Hermione," George begged, joining Harry in his admiration. "It can't be too bad, having all this. Look! I bought wine. I mean, everybody knows you have to have carrot cake with wine."

"Well then. We'll have carrot," Hermione decided.

"But we have milk," Harry quickly yelped. "And you have to have..." He could not discern the flavor of some underneath the frosting. "And you have to have those three, right there, with milk."

"Okay," Hermione continued with a slight frown, as she did not want to refuse Harry on his birthday. But, really, nearly twenty cakes for three people was too much, no matter whose birthday it was. "Okay, we'll have those four."

"But," George quickly protested, moving to squeeze himself between the table and Hermione, arms open wide as if to protect them. "But, it's Tuesday."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, intrigued by this excuse. "Yes?"

"Ah...I promised Harry a rum cake the next time we happened upon the rare occasion of a Tuesday. And, what do you know? Here we are."

Instead of scowling in irritation, Hermione smiled patiently, trying in vain to hide her amusement. "All right. Those five."

"Oh, oh!" Harry cried as Hermione nearly brandished her wand to eradicate the other fourteen. "Tomorrow! Tomorrow's Wednesday!"

"Right Harry," Hermione said calmly, wand still poised in the air. "You get smarter with each passing year."

"No, no, I promised George..." Harry was not nearly as skilled as George, who had, after all, grown up with Molly Weasley, at telling cake flavors. So, to save time, he pointed to as many as he could. "These right here. I promised these cakes to George on Wednesday."

"Really?"

"Yes. And...and..." Harry bent his chin low, and gazed at Hermione with adorable, wide, and almost child like eyes. "I love you."

It was impossible for any female to refuse that mournful look, much less a female who was already Harry's friend. With a sigh, Hermione encouraged them to go ahead and gain a belly ache if they wanted to, she didn't care; as long as they waited until after supper. The three, under two certain boys' encouragement, ate a rather quick meal.

While the boys happily found a few knives and opened the milk bottle—for wine, George mock whispered to Harry, wasn't truly best with carrot cake, and he had merely said that to fool the women-folk—Hermione set about decorating the flat. True, the surprise had been ruined, but that was no reason to ignore the meticulous planning she had drawn.

"Very nice Hermione," Harry said from the kitchen. "I'm very partial to red and gold, I'll have you know."

"Yes," Hermione said, "somehow, I sensed that." Then she ran to her room to fetch a neatly wrapped birthday present. When she returned, she saw George had already given Harry his own gift.

"A gift certificate to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes," Harry read aloud with a cheerful nod. "Thanks!"

"Yes, some people would kill for that," George said after a gulp of milk.

"And what a senseless homicide it would be," Hermione sighed as she handed Harry her own.

"Thank you for the book, Hermione," Harry said with a cheeky grin. He hadn't even unwrapped it yet.

"Oh! Don't say it like that. You don't even know what it's about!"

It was, much to Harry's confusion, a book on proper photography.

"Erm...thank you, Mione, it's great..."

It was then she brought out her second present. "It's a wizard's camera!" Hermione told him excitedly. She had used up the rest of her account in Gringott's to buy it, knowing Harry would like it. "With wizard's film!"

Harry told Hermione that it was right prejudiced of her to imply that muggle film was not good enough for a wizard's camera, and that, even if she disapproved, he fully planned on producing mixed, half breed pictures—

"Oh shut up! A simple thank you would have sufficed."

While Harry fiddled with the buttons in fascination—not doing anything, Hermione assumed unhappily, the book recommended—George leaned over to Hermione.

"Sorry."

"About what?"

"About my present being ten times better than yours and everything. Must be terribly humiliating."

Hermione rolled her eyes and thanked George for his consideration.

As midnight rolled around, George and Harry felt as if they would have to, in order to leave their chairs. Hermione, of course, had shown some restraint, and had only three slices herself. The boys, in all their glorious wisdom, felt it necessary to have a slice or two of each.

"Have you had a good birthday, Harry?" Hermione asked worriedly as Harry gingerly rose to relocate himself to the couch. "I mean, I know it's only George and myself..."

"Speak for yourself woman," George groaned, "I'm a party all by my bleedin' self."

"In spite of George being here," Hermione continued in exasperation. "It has been a good birthday, hasn't it?"

Harry thought of it as he sank into the cushions, gastronomically healing. It had been better than last year's, of course. One did not generally give a damn about becoming eighteen years old when fighting a war. And, the years prior, he had had to endure them at the Dursley's, only receiving presents through the mail. "Best ever," he called from the couch to the anxious Hermione. His eyes fluttered, encouraging to him to contented sleep. "Best ever."

Hermione smiled happily at this admission. It was unfortunate that this smile was short lived, for George had thought it best to throw a dung bomb at Harry for being so sentimental, and Harry was inclined to retaliate with the most uncouth behavior.

They did, however, in the ensuing horse play, manage to avoid the cakes.

xoxox

**the boy is the most unmanageable." **

**Plato**


	12. A Small Genetic Pool

**Cat: **I don't know how you manage to write novel length reviews, but I'll always appreciate them.

And whew! You have no idea how relieved I was to read about the sarcasm. I guess that sort of irony isn't conveyed very well through typed reviews! And, although you told me to, of course I'll take what you say seriously. You're a reviewer, and I can't help it. I'm glad you enjoyed the birthday scene. I've always felt bad for Harry and his lonely birthdays. Not to mention that a war tends to dampen one's eighteenth birthday.

Right...cat...are you psychic?

Because that line that your wrote, that bit about me running away with fear of letting my readers down...that was sort of true. I've always written things my own way, even if I knew for a fact that I would lose readers if I did. But now, with so many people wanting things done a certain way, I sort of feel an unpleasant pressure. I've NEVER worried about plot pressure before. That sort of scared me! I sort of thought that, if I write it in a way that pleases this reader, and that reader will be mad. But if I end it this way, than that other reader will be mad. But your review made me decide something:

I'll write it MY way, and screw everyone else.

Oh wait, that sounded horribly bitchy of me, right? I'll correct it:

I'll write it in the way I see fit, and hope that the readers see the logic of my choices.

Hopefully, nobody will read in between the lines and see the bitchy-ness within! And, it's so weird. Despite the fact that I hate him, Draco's actually growing on me. Truthfully, I'd like to see him with a happy ending too. How completely weird am I for converting myself!

I'm sorry to hear you're in pain (or rather, technically, not in pain, since they are painkillers come to think of it, will you remember reviewing this fic once you're off the meds?) It's good that you can still lol while you're ill (I'm a whiny little baby when I'm in pain, on meds or not!) The review made a lot more sense than you probably realize, and thanks for writing it! I always enjoy long reviews.

**GIRL W/PNK CONVERSE: **Er, I'll just assume pnk converse means those pink sneakers? Any, on to the response.

That was a good "wo"? Right? As in "wo" good story, and not Keanu Reeves "wo," totally inconceivable ideas?

And, as I've always claimed, a writer can take any sort of review in stride. So I'll just thank you for yours, and ignore the "make it more eventful" command, as if this was some fanfic of the readers' special orders. Would you like fries with that?

Don't mind me; I've been told I'm snarky. Any way, thanks for the review!

**Onion Layers: **Yay! Draco-less yet enjoyable chapter! It can be done! And, you're right, a few people don't agree with you, but I'll just shoot them.

Okay, just kidding. Hopefully that little joke doesn't get me arrested or anything. Right, now I'm paranoid. Moving on...

Thanks for the complimentary and logical review!

**sugar n spice 522: **Awww...such loyalty! Such honesty! Such...something-y! (Things sound better in threes, don't ya think?) Any ways, thanks! I know I say "thanks!" all the time, but I do mean it! My conscience just started bothering me when I thought about how, when I look for specifically Draco/Hermione stories, I always expect them to end up together by the end of the fic. Then I thought about my fic, and how it might not end up that way and so...well, maybe, once I'm seventy percent sure, I'll choose the right pairing category. Hope the wait wasn't too bad!

**Oli: **There's nothing wrong with "shameless sucking up"...as long as that sucking up is to me. Okay, just kidding! But still, I appreciate the reassurance. Yes, I do tend to gloom and doom things, don't I? Thank god for evil twins to make things interesting. I can't imagine Hermione giving in to such silliness! It's true, about the characters needing a break. But, sigh, break's over, and it's back to that ever so enjoyable, problematic life. Still, I don't think you'll mind this new problem...

I don't know if I'd be able to top that same week-locking keys and headlights situation of your friend's. In fact, if I ever did something stupider (and I'm starting to recall a sadly illogical experiment with a wire, a lightbulb, and a battery...) I wouldn't repeat it in fear of lowering your good opinion of me!

Sigh...please don't hold your breath on the night worldy one. It's tremendously difficult to figure out THIS mess I've written, and I'm only about a third way through with writing that one. I'm actually a little depressed it isn't further along. But still, because you're so nice in anticipating a fic that might not even be good, I'll try!

Thanks and enjoy!

**Otukuannie: **Yes, I love fuzziness. Fuzziness good. Fuzziness fun. Fuzziness...incredibly short lived. We're back to actual plot now, and I know you won't be disappointed, because this plot-mover chapter has Draco in it.

I'll be truthful and say it was a major pain in the ass making sure everything fit just right. Weaving the whole deceitful web was very painstaking—putting a hint here, a clue there. But, in an odd way, also enjoyable. Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment.

Lovely long review, thanks! (Thanks for even more educational tidbits. Hmm...if the Queen is on the Canadian quarter, what will be on Quebec's coins if it secedes from the nation?)

Oh, and in response to your review of Discovering Distraction...heeheehee...welcome to the dark side...though, if you think it about, as Draco is the "bad guy" I should say, welcome to the bright side, but that doesn't sound nearly as dramatic or sinister as "dark side"...but, oh well, you get my drift.

Mwu-ha-ha-ha-ha!

**Kia: **All right, now I'm all curious and it's all your fault. What happened in June 2003? How very lucky you are, for being anonymous. Otherwise I would have found your profile and, by this time, emailed you a dozen times to answer my question. Oh, and congratulations. You are the first (and I suspect the last!) to say that my plot is a "thing of incomparable beauty." Seriously don't know how to take that one. I mean, obviously, I'm grateful for the tremendous compliment (I'd be a total bitch if I wasn't grateful) but also, a little speechless. Still, I'm glad all my hard work pleased you!

Yeah, I hate to sound so ignorant but...Ursula LeGuin? Qui? What does she write?

And I could not think of anything better than a review saying "Hermione is SO Hermione." Honestly. I got all fuzzy and happy inside. And HA! FINALLY! I'm glad SOMEBODY appreciated the freakin cakes! Do you know how long I sat in front of my computer, trying to think of NINETEEN different cake flavors? TOO LONG, that's how long!

And, while I couldn't help but strongly think CHEATER, I did laugh when you mentioned that the Ron/Hermione parts could destroy your principles. Mostly because it was very funny, and also, I love irony. You had to protect your principles to preserve your loyalty to that one character WITHOUT GOOD PRINCIPLES! I had to laugh! But, seriously, I hope that you do go back and re-read the Ron-Hermione moments. I put a lot of thought (and all right, I admit, a lot of fluff) in them. Just remind yourself thoroughly how much you love Draco, and then read them. It's what I do, except the reverse. I tell myself that my love for Ron will never fade, and then I go and make Draco the most lovable guy ever (don't tell anybody, but it's starting to not work! I'm actually...liking...Draco! Heavens preserve me!)

And here I am again, hating to sound ignorant, but LJ codes? Quoi? Oh, never mind explaining. I'm virtually clueless when it comes to internet stuff. It took me a shamefully long time to learn how to post on this site! Thanks again!

**Dastardly Snail: **That's right. I'm not going to buy that whole "I love this chapter" bit any more! You say that to all the chapters! Tease!

Just kidding, don't cry. Of course I'll believe it when you say you love this chapter. And, as for the balance, I don't believe in all angsty fics. It's not possible. One cannot be sad all the freakin time. I'm sure Sirius found something to laugh at while in prison. Wow, how random. Can you imagine?

_Hey, that jail bar is blacker than that jail bar! Wait, did I just think something racist? Blast you Pettigrew, for making me think something racist!_ :shakes fist in the air angrily:

All right, enough silliness. I love Men in Tights, especially the musical number!

**K: **Okay, you've gone and done it. You made me laugh out loud in the middle of an otherwise silent room, and now I have the official appearance of an insane person. Oh well. Thank you for the declaration of undying love. They're rather handy to have around. I shall put it in tupperware and keep it in the freezer to preserve it. (wait. After reading what I've just typed, I drop the claim of "official appearance of an insane person." It's no longer an appearance. I'm certifiable. Who talks about freezing love in tupperware besides the certifiable?) Please don't think I don't like the cliches; they make for excellent stories. I just wanted a nice, polite, subtle (was it subtle or polite? I always fall a few inches short of both!) way of pointing out the lack of logic in them. Since I honestly don't have an clear view of the ending, I'll keep you suggestion in mind. I don't know how I'd manage to make the ending like the beginning, but it would be an enjoyable challenge! Thanks for all the lovely things you said about my story!

**Crystallized Snow: **My self esteem was searching for nourishment within the depths of your review (despite its brevity), and the clever little emotion found it in the line: "Hopefully, you'll post another good chapter with more Draco!"

Now, I'll just interpret that as, "This was a good chapter, and I know the next chapter will be good, but I'd appreciate more Draco." That's how I'll interpret it. :nods happily:

But, in all seriousness now, I felt compelled to include the facts. I've read other amnesia fics, other kidnapping fics, and those Hermione spend the rest of her days with Draco fics. And, maybe this is my school-oriented mind now, I've always wondered about those important things in her life? Her school? Her friends? What happened to Hogwarts after the war? How did society view the military heroes afterwards?

J.K. Rowling makes a point to illustrate these rather important details of life, and so it's only natural that I try to remain loyal to that concept.

And, on another note, while it's all well and good that Tom Felton turned 17 (well and good but still not legal!) I fail to see how that's related to my story. It would be like me reviewing a Draco/Hermione story with simply "Rupert Grint is pale!"

Any way, thanks for the review! (isn't it a bit weird that I've written such a ridiculously long response to your five lines? Wait, "weird" isn't the word. "Babbly" is more like it!)

**Patagonia**: All right, all right, I'll settle for "amazing" (listen to me, as if it's such a terrible burden to have! You're probably rolling your eyes!). About George; I decided that it would be a bit too cliché to have that whole "Fred and George, joined at the hip, completing each other's sentences" scenario. I mean, I like to read about them, they are funny, but I guess some fail to realize that they are two separate entities.

And I can't honestly say it was difficult going on and on about the inner workings of Hermione Granger's mind. I could have gone on for ten more pages, but then I realized that many of the readers would have been sleeping by then! I know what you're talking about though, with those fics "where people act a certain way for no apparent reason." I find those a little bit confusing, usually asking myself (around the time Ron sexually assaults Hermione or after Draco writes Hermione a flowery poem) if they read the same Harry Potter books that I had! But I guess that's the liberties when writing fanfiction; writers can butcher the characters any way they want. And who am I to talk? Look what I've done to Draco!

Rambling not good. Going to stop it one day. (And then resume it after that one day.) Thanks for the review!

**Athena Linborn: **I'll go out on a limb here and take your word that you're actually Athena Linborn. If you are not, I do not blame you, because it's a good name to steal. If you are, please excuse my cyber paranoia. Any ways...aw, gee, thanks! I'll admit, I was a bit nervous to write a Serious Weasley twin; because I had never really pictured George or Fred in anything beyond mild irritation. And yeah, I was very tired of writing angsty Harry. I think, actually, that I was tired of angst in general. One can only write so much before getting all Ethan Fromey. I've had to tone it down in this chapter, though, because happiness, I've learned, makes me stray from the plot. I'm very distracted when it comes to writing boyish stupidity, and would gladly write two or three chapters on it. This would not please the plot-likers in the slightest, so I've had to cut back on the new addiction. Lordy, now I sound like a junkie. I'll leave it like that before I type anything else stupid! Thanks!

The Painted Past

Chapter 12

**Love is the answer, but while you're waiting for the answer, **

xoxox

Hermione awoke with the irritating feeling of missing something. As her mind determined that this "missing something" was possibly Draco, Hermione pushed the niggling sensation out of her thoughts and began her routine for the day.

"I don't suppose," Harry yawned to the girl as fluttered around the flat with all the grace and speed of an African swallow, "that you'll tell me where you're going?"

To Hermione, it was absurd that he should still be so sleepy at noon. To Harry, it was absurd that she had so much accomplished before lunch.

But she had been very busy and important for the past three or four weeks, and so he was not surprised when she leveled him with a stare that called for golden silence. In those rare instances during which she was patient and available enough to communicate with him, Harry learned that she had been accepted to dozens of universities, and offered twice as many internships with many magical institutions. Already, she had patched up differences with dear, sweet Ginny, and offered the twins a new five year plan for their store. Percy was now receiving several and unrequested job offers, due to the generosity of a recently found, extremely influential witch.

The reason, he suspected as he watched her from the drowning couch, that she was unusually silent and grumpy today was that she was busy interfering with another's life: mainly, his own.

"And don't think I don't know about your plan to ship me off to uni," he warned as she wolfed down a quick meal. Hermione stared at him with laughably innocent eyes, her mouth too full for false denial. "I told you I'm taking a break."

"Oh, you've had forever and a day to take a break. It's time you realise that your good looks won't carry you through life forever."

"Very true, very true. I'll just have to rely on my sexual prowess and the stability of the male prostitution economy—"

"Shut up, Harry, or I'll find you a client."

"All right, but no kissing on the mouth," he replied with a martyred sigh.

Hermione's hand itched to physically wipe that smirk off his face. "Just how the hell did you get to be so cheeky?"

"What can I say? Traveling the world makes one...worldly."

"But not very glib, apparently."

After only five minutes of, what he thought was, a very decisive conversation, his best friend dropped a few college brochures onto his lap. He knew, by experience, that she liked to multitask on everybody but herself. And while she told them that she spent her leisure time visiting Malfoy, he knew she was off at Hogwarts, assisting and listening to old Dumbledore. Hermione was a terrible liar, and Harry considered himself wonderfully perceptive...also, the headmaster sent a gift once, with a card thanking Miss Granger for her "indispensable suggestions."

"Off to Malfoy's humble abode, eh?"

"Mmm...do you think it will rain today?" She always did that, changing the subject when somebody mentioned the criminal. They both observed the beautiful day outside the window, and the witch blushed at the stupidity of her question.

"Only if water falls out of the sun's arse, yeah," was Harry's sleepy reply.

"Do stop sharing your celestial fantasies, Harry."

"Perv."

"You're the one daydreaming about the sun's bottom. Well, I'm off, and please do something productive by the time yours truly returns."

"I shall make no promises," he saluted sharply. "And, back by supper?"

"Naturally."

Hermione was, through her own hard work for the past month, fully recovered in society. Emotionally, she was at a stalemate, but she preferred not to dwell on problems for which she had no solution. On the legal front, Draco Malfoy was at a stale mate as well. For every incriminating piece of evidence or testimony, a strong defensive evidence or motivation was presented as well. Hermione had been helpful in both defending and persecuting the man she loved, much to the confusion of the inquisitive public.

She had had one particular visit in mind, and the opportunity window was very limited. Still, as she passed Hogwarts, Hermione could not help but stop by and review her—er, Dumbledore's progress. Maybe that was what that "missing something" was. Her role as a leader, perhaps.

"Hello Miss Granger. This is unexpected." Albus Dumbledore mumbled around a piece of candy.

Hermione shrugged, and gratefully received her copies of the school's reconstruction report. She frowned in disappointment and slouched in a decidedly unladylike and boneless manner. Fawkes watched her with interest from the perch.

"It was mistake hiring people with all the collective intelligence of a..." She had been about to say "Hufflepuff," but checked herself in time. "A dumb person."

Dumbledore gave her a censuring glance, and she had a sneaking suspicion he had read her mind.

"As I recall, it was your suggestion to give the giants a foot hold in the economy."

"You would think that, with their brute strength and mind boggling numbers, the dungeons would be finished by now."

"Impatient, are we?"

Hermione regained her bones in time to lean forward and rest her head on his desk in a dismal manner. "The evidentiary search is coming to an end."

"And?"

"And! You know what that means! That means that they'll be deciding his punishment soon."

"And?"

"And! And...they might lock him up, forever, and I'll never be able to beat his arse in chess again!"

"I highly doubt it will come to that, Miss Granger. They allow chess in prison." She heaved another, burdened sigh, and missed the rolling of Dumbledore's eyes. "Hermione, really, you're becoming unnecessarily dramatic. All will end well...I have an instinct for these sort of things."

"Oh, you're a crazy old man, Dumbledore, and I won't have any of your platitudes today." She had grown frank with him more than she would have ever had dreamed, and, for some reason, Dumbledore did not mind in the least. His tolerance was most likely the result of long-suffering years of Snape and McGonagall.

"Yes, but you're the only crazy girl who actually needs them."

"Too true...well, you're being a bother."

"It was not my intent—oh, I'm fibbing now. I'm annoying you on purpose."

"You're such a silly duck. Is there anything important going on? Besides the obvious, I mean."

At her request, Dumbledore smiled secretively, and began rummaging through his desk.

"Stop that will you? No good comes out of those twinkling eyes."

"I beg your pardon, Miss Granger, I never twinkle anything."

"Right, and I suppose you have random fireflies stuck in your eye sockets?"

"If my naturally effervescent personality shines through my eyes, I cannot help it. But I do not, by no means, purposely sparkle through them. Now do be quiet and let me find...here it is!"

"It" was a stack of thick paper cards. Seeing how they were not exceptionally vital to school rebuilding, Hermione was not tremendously excited.

"I did find them last week, but of course they had to be corrected due to...ah...misprints."

Hermione then discovered that not only had the recent Hogwarts alumni been immortalized in history books, but also on collector's cards as well.

"I look fat," she lamented as she read her information. Hermione had been feeling ridiculously insecure now that reporters were watching her every move. She liked to think that she was a confident young woman who did not need to slim down or push up anything to be successful...

But there were times when she simply felt fat. Plump, as her mother used to pleasantly term it.

"Rubbish."

"I do, I do...you looked fat on your card as well, and now they add two stones to my weight."

A bit wounded by the new fact that he was plump on his chocolate frog card, Dumbledore only said, "Well, I've heard the magical camera adds two stones. How many cameras did you eat?"

She sent him a glare that not even Dumbledore could withstand. With an air of clearing his throat, he changed the subject. "Young Harry, however, does seem a trifle thin in his portrait."

The headmaster handed the card over to Hermione for inspection, and she couldn't help but correct him.

"Actually, it's quite accurate. If it was meant to portray him before the war, then, yes, he's entirely too lean. But now, he's very close to looking like that. Lack of proper meals, I guess."

Dumbledore had stared, smiled, and, if she wasn't mistaken, twinkled those mischevious eyes of his before opening his mouth to answer. Unfortunately, it happened that Dobby entered at the same time with a small tray of tea and biscuits.

"I did not order this, Dobby," Dumbledore said gently.

"Dobby knows that sir..." The house elf trailed off into a rather annoyingly lengthy explanation, during which Hermione resolved to teach the poor creature the use of personal pronouns.

"And Professor Flitwick wanted to have a talk sir, so he says..."

The unexpected visitor reminded Hermione of her original purpose. "Well," Hermionie briskly interrupted as she shot to her feet, "seeing as you'll have company, I'll be leaving soon. Have a good day, sir."

"Tomorrow, then, Miss Granger?"

She shook her head as she hurried out. "It will have to be next week, I'm afraid. See you then."

In her haste, she had nearly tripped over Professor Flitwick himself, and threw her apologies over her shoulder as she scurried through the corridors and out the school. Somebody was stopping by today, for the briefest of moments, to check up on the grounds...

"Hagrid!" Hermione launched herself on the half giant for a massive hug. "I missed you! How is everything?"

"What are you doin' asking about me?" he demanded, setting her down safely on the ground. "How are you, is the question."

"Oh, I'm fine," she assured him, not all in the mood to discuss the past, "Where is Mrs. Hagrid?"

"Out visiting her friends...thinkin' she could find a decent one for Grawp," he confided proudly. "Look, sorry I didn't invite you to the wedding...very sudden, come to think of it." The massive man frowned, as if the last three months had been a terrible, unmemorable blur. She had heard of the half-giant's return to the country from Dumbledore just the other day. Hermione smiled at him sympathetically. She did not doubt for a second that Hagrid had found himself unbreakably married before he could blink.

"Oh, I'm sure it was earth shatteringly romantic, and would have been ruined the presence of pesky former students," she sighed with a smile as she and Hagrid meandered through the grounds.

"Eh," Rubeus Hagrid shrugged with his infamous eloquence, "it was her idea to elope. I just couldn't find an argument not to...well, not one she'd accept any way."

Hermione imagined their old friend might have been slightly guilty at the thought of running away while the search for her was still in progress. She also imagined that the new Mrs. Hagrid would have easily manoeuvered around that guilt very easily, as the Beauxbatons headmaster had Hagrid wrapped around her pinkey.

"Invited or not," she decided as Hagrid studied a particularly boring hole in the ground, "I shall still buy you a wedding present. What would you like? A new umbrella, a large fruit basket, a...comb? Come to think of it, how do you get away with such a wild mane now that you're married?"

"Running," he muttered while patting the untamed tresses protectively. "But enough about me, enough about me. What are you doing nowadays?"

"Ah...visiting Dumbledore, as you can see. Dumbledore, McGonagall, Flitwick, the Weasleys..."

"Yeah? And how are they? The Weasleys, I mean."

She did not like his unshakable habit of straying towards unpleasant subjects.

"They're doing all right. And..."

_Don't say anything_, Hermione told herself abruptly. _Stop speaking right now._

"Er...well, do you want to know a secret, Hagrid?" Hermione now recognised the fact that there was no connection whatsoever from her brain to her mouth.

It was wrong, she knew, to betray the trust of her dear friend Harry Potter, especially with no provocation of duress. But it simply felt more wrong to keep something as important as this from somebody who had helped and informed them, albeit accidentally, in their schemes for the past seven years. Dumbledore, she was certain, would have his own way of figuring things out, but people tended to leave Hagrid rudely in the dark about such matters.

"Er...yes? Now don't make me regret saying that, Miss Hermione—"

Hermione took a deep breath. She hadn't exactly promised secrecy to Harry, had she? And Hagrid had every right to know, for Hagrid was practically family..."Harry's back, and he's perfectly fine. I can't tell you where he's been or why he went there, but I just wanted you to know...that's he's all right."

Hagrid had to sit on a stump for a full five minutes before finding an adequate response. Hermione felt a little sorry for him. After all, the boy whom he had helped raise for the most of his education had disappeared for an eternity, and she imagined he had just been coming to terms with the fact before the elopement. Now, quite out of the blue, that wound had to be reopened once again the most random manner.

While she waited, Hermione wished she had stayed with Dumbledore and the biscuits Dobby had delivered. Her stomach rumbled softly to support this wish. But she had been so busy with this and that, and everything, that sometimes the necessity of eating become so very dispensable.

"Well...I guess...I guess it makes sense. You turn up...and then Harry—did he rescue you?"

"No," she replied indignantly. "I can rescue myself, you know. He's just...troubled by the past at the moment, and I'm helping him find direction."

"And all that direction findin' must be done in secret."

"Yes," she replied firmly.

"All right," Hagrid sighed and rose to make his way to the castle. "I'm goin' in for a bite. Are you hungry too?"

"Yes, but I have a little boy to feed at home."

"Merlin, Hermione, how long was I away?"

"I meant Harry, silly." She left Hagrid feeling infinitely relieved, and made her way far away enough from Hogwarts grounds to apparate to the flat. Normally, she took a more manual route to and fro, with trains and walking and such, but was in no mood to walk so much so late in the day. She was irritated by something unknown and inconsequential, only important because of its persistent anonymity. Hermione brushed the thought away as Harry greeted her with a massive hug after she popped into the kitchen.

"Hermione! My savior from starvation! My golden angel of bounty! My—you don't have any food!"

"No I don't."

"But I begged and pled and _beseeched_ you to pick me up some McDonald's before you left!"

"You did not!"

"I did too!"

"I would have remembered beseeching, Harry."

"Probably the hair blocking all sound waves to your ears," he muttered under his breath as he rummaged through the cupboards. She smacked him upside his head for the insult.

"I heard that just fine," she rejoined tartly. "And even you know that you asked me for nothing before I left."

"Let's not talk about technicalities," he dismissed airily as he grabbed some toast spread and began emptying the jar with vigor. "Let's talk about what you've done today."

She refused in a roundabout way, as he expected, and tried to evade him conversationally and physically, as he also expected. Which was why he executed the unexpected and tackled her to the ground.

"Awful, wretched, bastard of a boy," she spat out angrily, as he picked her up and tossed her onto the fluid furniture. "Act your age, for god's sake, Harry!" She would have lectured more if not for the pillow thrown in her face.

"Look," he retorted calmly as he threw pillow after pillow with amazing aim at her face, "all I want to know is if you've heard the news. That is, if you haven't been terrorizing the country side, as George has theorized."

"I have—oof—I wasn't—stop it, that hurt—What new—damn it, Harry, if you don't stop..." George was definitely a bad influence, Hermione decided, and it was high time she limited their play time together.

"The news is, with very little reliable sources, that Draco's maximum punishment may be a broken wand, life long ban from magic, about a couple years in prison, ten at most, if..."

"If...?"

"If your charges were to be removed." He did not like to see her so suddenly depressed, as she tended to get whenever the case was brought into conversation, and was quick to add the second piece of news. "And," he emphasized, as if the first information was merely an appetizer, "we are on chocolate frog cards!"

Harry waved the Ron, Hermione, Harry cards directly before his best friend's face in an effort to bring a smile to her face. "George said you look two stones heavier—"

"George this, George that," she snapped, abruptly irritated beyond reason, and pushed his hand away as she made her way to her room. "It's not healthy to be listening to that monkey day in and day out."

The day was drawing to a close on a sour note. Both were hungry. Both were constantly gnawed by the thought of Draco Malfoy's possible doom. And one was two stones heavier to chocolate frog eaters world wide, and still plagued by an unknown problem.

"Well, it's not as if I've ample opportunity to talk to _you_. He did threaten to limit his visits to just weekly if you didn't apologise."

"Apologise for what?" she demanded as she reached her door way.

"Calling him an insolent moron who only teases know it alls because of life long envy."

Hermione scoffed. "If he thinks it's an inaccurate description, then his visits can be limited to monthly." And with an upturned nose, she slammed the door.

Harry grinned, and resumed his quest to reach the bottom of the jar of nutella. In the silence with which he had grown accustomed, he heaved himself onto the counter, and listened to London. It was a pitiful dinner, he reflected, thumb deep in the jar, but better days were ahead. Mainly, after January. After Ron's resurrection. After Draco was properly sent to jail.

Sometimes, he would ponder the possibility of being identified in muggle London, and then felt tempted to go outside, just for bit, just for some fresh air. Just for some conversation with somebody was not feline, feathery, or very busy. Then he would remember the very important red haired life at stake, and remained inside, feeling very noble and pasty.

"Oh fucking son of a goddamn bitch," he abruptly heard erupt from Hermione's room. Before he could ponder the cause, or remove his thumb from his meal, Hermione had appeared, grabbed his arm, and dragged him off the kitchen counter. He had nearly fallen down the stairs as she sped down and out of the complex. But he noticed, with resentment, that his so called friend did not care whether or not he had broken his neck. She was too busy running, swearing, and mumbling incoherently about a "monthly visitor." Which was silly, Harry reflected, for there was no way in hell would George ever agree to limiting their quality time.

Then he understood. Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived and Man Who Swallowed Death with Toast Spread, gulped in terror once he found himself racing towards a chemist.

xoxox

"Don't be such a baby," Hermione snapped, and then winced at her choice of words. With a determined sigh, she scanned the shelves before her and murmured to him, "Nobody knows you're Harry Potter here."

Harry still refused to pull his shirt collar down and away from his face. He had the front of the cotton tee covering his nose and mouth, and the edges tucked behind his ears so that it hung like a make shift surgeon's mask.

"Even if that is the case," he snapped, words muffled by the material of his shirt, "I feel fatally uncomfortable in the pregnancy testing aisle."

"Yes, well imagine how I feel, considering I'm going to buy and use them."

"'Them'? Christ, Hermione, how many children are you planning to pop out?" he exclaimed as she grabbed five kits and walked her way to the front to pay.

"It's not one test per child, idiot," she snapped, very cross and understandably so. "I'm just making sure the results are consistent."

Five minutes later, they were racing back to the complex at a faster pace than before. "Tell me why, exactly," she huffed, "did you buy the arthritis cream?"

"Because," Harry said, shirt down and away from his face now that the embarrassing contents were safely in a bag, "if I didn't put that on the counter, then it would look like we were simply there for pregnancy tests."

"And what's so awful about that?"

"Well...it shows that...well, god, I don't know. I just saw the look on that chemist's face and I felt compelled to buy something else other than baby testers. Will you be needing help with this...stuff?"

By this time, they had made it across various streets and past various alley ways to the home sweet home of their flat. Hermione rolled her eyes as she pushed open their door. "Thanks Harry, but the new and improved baby testers are now built for easy, one person handling."

He nodded nervously and, though she did not say to, immediately sat at the kitchen table and folded his hands like a little school boy too frightened to move. Hermione left him in that position when she rushed to the loo, and then found him in the same exact position when she emerged three hours later.

Three long, brutal, nerve wrecking hours.

Three horribly enlightening hours.

Harry Potter offered her a virtually empty jar of the hazelnut spread. She shook her head. The very thought of eating made her sick to her stomach.

Several times, he opened his mouth to speak and no sound came out, much like a gasping fish. When one of them finally did speak quietly, the sound was so sudden and unwelcome it seemed to physically shatter the dark stillness into a million pieces.

Just as Harry rose to, finally, flip on a light switch, Hermione sighed, "Oh Harry."

"Yes?" was his fear filled reply, wanting, yet _not _wanting, to hear the verdict.

"As if things couldn't get complicated enough..."

Harry nodded, somehow not surprised by the newest development. "This may...change things."

"Now Harry, what makes you say that?"

"Well, I should think it was pretty obvio—oh, I see, sarcasm. Biting sarcasm, at that. Moody already, Hermione?"

"Bugger off. I'm...I'm...with his..."

She didn't need to say it, of course, as both knew what she was and who was responsible for it.

"Good god," Harry muttered, running his hands through his hair. Hermione looked at him inquisitively, for he sounded as if the news was just beginning to sink in. Harry met her gaze directly, with a noticeable amount of nervousness shining through the green stare. "Good god Hermione! I _tackled_ you!"

Oh, he wasn't sorry when it was simply her, little old Hermione Granger, who had been irked by that physical offense. Oh no, of course not. But, when it came to the possible injury to the offspring of his enemy, _then_ Harry Potter became remorseful.

"You shouldn't have done it in the first place, you barbarian," she muttered, glad to have something to distract her.

"It will probably have a dent in its head," Harry warned her with an apologetic expression, illustrating to Hermione just how much education Harry had of unborn babies. "I did land on you very heavily. It will probably have its legs smooshed together."

Hermione rolled her eyes, contemplating the merits of the word "smooshed."

"Of course, if it does have anything wrong with it," Harry continued in a lighter tone, "I'd wager the small genetic pool had a significant role. Poor Hermione." For some reason she could not begin to understand, Harry spoke knowingly to the empty seat, as if another, invisible visitor was privy to this conversation. "She'll have a cross eyed, leg smooshed, dented head baby all because the Malfoy family couldn't find anybody but cousins to marry."

"If you say another word," Hermione warned him, disliking the growing laughter in his tone, "you will lose the ability to have children at all."

Harry accepted the threat with a nod, adding only, "I don't think I'd want to any way, with what it does to your gender's emotions."

Hermione had to tell _him_, of course. Harry told her so redundantly. Harry said a great deal that night, about proper food, no more running to and fro like a headless chicken, and doctor appointments. But Hermione only had one appointment in mind as Harry, rather forcefully, sent her to bed.

"_What're you studying?"_

Her eyes fluttered shut as the only comforting memory she had left cradled her mind.

"_Latin, I told you already."_

"_What's this? Ouch, don't snatch, you horrible thing, you'll leave paper cuts."_

"_They're little phrases, Ron. Cute little things that help me remember conjugation."_

She hugged a pillow tightly, and wondered if the being in her stomach felt it.

"_My, my, aren't we a clever little monkey?"_

"_Says the boy with ears that could take flight."_

"_I'll ignore that, because it was very immature and I haven't a very good comeback. What does this say?"_

"_Ama me fideliter, Fidem meam noto, Decorde totaliter, Et ex mente tota, Sum presentialiter, Absens in remota."_

Hermione pretended it was true, pretended it was all real, and fell asleep.

xoxox

All too soon, however, she felt a very timid hand on her shoulder, and heard a very timid boy call her name softly.

"Hermione, please wake up."

"Why Harry?" Hermione murmured gently, showing some of her world famous patience instead of doing what she truly wanted; namely, maiming her best friend.

"Because it's noon and you don't normally sleep this late and...and...and frankly, it's kind of scaring me. I've been scared enough lately, you know."

But Hermione was past listening. Swiftly, she sat up and looked at the angle of sunlight pouring through her window. Noon? What on earth possessed her to sleep till noon? Quickly, she reviewed the day before, wondering if anything unusual had occurred.

When she abruptly remembered that she was actively involved with that continuing-earth's-population concept, Hermione fell back against the pillows with a sigh.

"Draco must know first, before anybody. Oh lord, how on earth is he going to react," she wondered with mounting self pity.

"Ah, I've worried about that myself," Harry, admitted, sitting on the bed in deep thought. The young man envisioned a rather violent response from his former nemesis, with thrown furniture and a great deal of punch-avoiding. It must be considered, however, that that was the only sort of encounter Harry had ever had with Malfoy. "Only one way to decide who has to tell him." He began pointing between Hermione and himself with each syllable. "Dip, dip, dip, My little ship—"

Hermione irritably pushed his hand out of the way. "Harry, really. What a frighteningly stupid idea."

"Okay. Fine. Eeny, meeny, minie—"

"Harry, idiot, I meant that I'd tell him. Why on earth would I have you break the news?"

"Maybe because he's a psycho and it would be safer for the nonpregnant member of our trio to face him. Perhaps because I'm obviously the more rational one and can break the news in a gentle, unexciting way. Or, might it do with the fact that you haven't spoken to him since the first trial, and are obviously very uncomfortable to drop by for a quick hello?"

Hermione wondered if he was very annoyed with her for hiding the truth the past few weeks. Then she remembered she was with child, and pregnant women were allowed to do certain things without fear of punishment.

"Er..."

"Exactly," Harry said, rising to make breakfast in the kitchen. "If 'er' is your best argument, then it's fairly clear that I'm right."

"No. It means you tend to interrupt people before they could finish," she grumbled once she followed him out of the room.

"Really? Well then, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"I'm going to tell Draco."

He raised an eyebrow. "And...what's your argument?"

She smirked, not unlike a certain pale ferret, and sat smugly at the kitchen table. "My argument is...you can't stop me."

"Erm, excuse me? I can't stop you from meeting the dangerous criminal? Does the name Harry Kick Arse Potter ring any bells in your obviously forgetful mind?"

"Harry, Harry, Harry," she laughed softly. "Of course you could physically and magically stop me. But, you should remember that this is my condition, my psychotic criminal, and my right to tell him myself. Would you really deny me that?"

Hermione smiled a little more, for if there was one thing stronger than Harry's magical abilities, it was his conscience. More or less, any way.

"Bugger off," Harry mumbled, his back facing her so that she could not observe his defeated expression, "I'm making breakfast...didn't want to see the arsey ferret any way."

xoxox

Hermione had meant to see Draco immediately, as if the thing inside her was a ticking time bomb. But, after a confirming doctor's appointment and then Harry's fussing, the young witch felt she needed some time to cope with the news herself before sending the father of the child into apoplectic fits. And so, days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into a fortnight before she summoned enough courage to march into the Ministry of Magic.

She stood outside the prisoner's door, which had not committed portal suicide, doing monologues and arithmetic. She was three months and three quarters along, the matter of which caused a great argument between her and her physician. Where the hell had been her morning sickness, Hermione had demanded rather angrily. And the doctor had answered, with a great deal confusion, that she was one of the lucky ones who did not suffer that, and wasn't she happy?

She was not happy to know that, for nearly four months, she hadn't known she was expecting. She could have imbibed something unfit for it! She could have exerted in activities unsuitable for pregnancy! She could have done a great deal of things for those weeks. Three and three quarters of something growing in her belly, meaning...

Meaning it was a god damned miracle she hadn't noticed the absence of certain monthly visitor all along.

Her subconscious had been murmuring very unhelpful things like that for some time now, but each time Hermione would conjure a criticism, she would also find an excuse. She was hexed perpetually, after all. She was trapped in an imaginary marriage, after all. Her pretend husband was so handsome it was distracting, after all.

Her evil subconscious had slipped that last, pitiful excuse in.

The baby would be born—Harry had said "Mark my words, it will hatch from a leathery egg," earning himself a bruise—in December. One month before the all too important anniversary. Meaning, though it was rather callous to think this way, it would not interfere with the necessary triad for Ron's homecoming.

Aside from maternal calculations, Hermione also wondered how, exactly, to break the news to dear old father to be.

"Good news, Draco" seemed a bit too optimistic. He would most likely expect an announcement of liberation after that, instead of being burdened with a bundle of joy.

"Remember when we had sex?" didn't seem ideal either. For, naturally, they had had _that_ plenty of times, and Hermione couldn't remember all of it. Which was, she thought snidely and untruthfully, a sad indication of his bedroom talent.

"Crookshanks did not succeed in his anti-fertilization mission," was a bit silly she reflected after a few minutes. Though she supposed it would bring him some joy, as he truly hated her cat.

She upbraided herself for dawdling and swiftly entered the room.

Where Harry was standing before Draco in a suspiciously informative manner. Upon her arrival, Harry's green eyes widened with palpable alarm.

Draco was pathetically overjoyed to see her and impatiently told Harry to get on with it and leave them alone.

"Get on with what?" Hermione demanded testily.

"Er..." Harry mumbled in a slight panic. "Tea and biscuits," was a jumbled answer.

Draco, who was lounging lazily in his chair, narrowed his eyes cynically. "Tea and biscuits," he repeated caustically. "The earth shattering, life changing thing is tea and biscuits?"

"Harry!" Hermione blazed. "You were going to tell him when we agreed that I would!"

Harry frowned slightly. "There's more to it than that, as it were..."

Hermione and Draco waited for the famous Harry Potter to add to his explanation, but were sadly disappointed. Harry seemed content to leave it at that.

"Well," Harry said brightly, pressing and invisible wrinkle on his long sleeve. "Glad to, ah, convey the importance of tea and biscuits to this sad, hopeless, and ugly convict." Draco glared and Harry ignored it. "Hope you can top that all too interesting topic Hermione." With a comically nervous grin, he quitted the room in a hurry.

"Bloody idiot," Draco muttered once the door was shut. But all his unfriendly thoughts regarding his former nemesis was forgotten when he settled his storm like gaze upon his Hermione once again. In a manner too swift and happy for a prisoner, Draco was across the room and standing before her with an absurd smile on his face. Before she could nervously demand just what the hell he was smiling for—did the news of tea and biscuits really affect him that much?—Hermione found herself kissed.

Well, that would be the official term for it.

But to Hermione Granger, it did not feel like a simple _kiss_. Oh heavens no.

The words _engulfed_ or _devoured_ or _savaged_ came to mind as Draco's lips insistently pressed upon and then parted her own. True, those words could be applied to an aggressive Dementor, so one could not be too thrilled at the thought. However, the words _delicious_ and _wonderful_ and _Oh dear, really shouldn't be doing this_ also came to her mind, only to be set aside when his hands rose from her shoulders to cup her chin in a touchingly tender manner.

And then, rebellious appendages that they were, Hermione's arms rose far up to wind around his neck. And, because they were merely branches of those rebellious arms, her disobedient fingers played lovingly with the ends of his hair.

She thought, besides _Oh good lord I love his kisses_, that Draco needed a hair cut.

Then all words and thoughts were forgotten when Draco, having felt her enthusiastic response, doubled his ferocity and, with no regard for her bones, reached around her waist to crush her body to his.

"Oh wait, wait," she murmured against the onslaught of his mouth. To her immense and disappointed surprise, Draco obeyed, pulling away only inches away from her face.

"You're right. We have to breathe once in a while," he agreed and his eyes searched her face with a sloppy grin. "Time's up," he declared after only a few seconds of observing her euphoric expression and swooped down for another kiss. Hermione, with more presence of mind, dodged his lips insistently and pushed him away until a safe distance rested between them. She couldn't very well have stayed composed with any body contact.

With a familiar pout gracing his lips, Draco agreed to sit at the table, across from his strangely fidgety love.

Her lips tightened adorably as if waiting for something. He learned very quickly that it was not, as his now bruised shins showed, a game of footsie. And so, he finally asked what was the matter.

"Well," she said in her impatient tone, "aren't you going to reprimand me?"

"For what? Breaking the kiss? Well, of course I don't appreciate it, but I'm far too used to your rejections by now to complain—"

"No, Draco, about my not visiting."

"Oh," he laughed a bit, somewhat apologetically. "Oh, that. Naturally, I didn't like having just Potter as my only visitor..."

"But?"

"But, well..." Draco shrugged. "Well, I'm in no position to reprimand you of anything, am I?"

It was...amazingly enough, what she thought exactly, In fact, Hermione had prepared a strong and impenetrable argument as to why any upbraiding of her absence was utterly preposterous. So, she was understandably surprised to hear herself say:

"Still, it was abominable of me to not even send a note. I do love you after all." It was so true that she felt no qualms about saying it so readily. He knew it any way, no matter how much she would deny it.

"Well then, that alone compensates your nonexistent visits for the past few weeks." Deliriously happy as he was to see her, hold her, kiss her, and make love to her—wait, that hadn't gotten around to that last part quite yet, he corrected himself—Draco Malfoy was not a slow creature. He continued in the same, harmlessly cheerful tone, "And so, what sparks this unprecedented occurrence? Has celibacy driven you to both insanity and my arms?"

Hermione responded to his hinting smile with a sarcastic grin of her own. "And how, pray tell, do you know I've stayed celibate?"

To her satisfaction, he stiffened immediately, sitting straight up in his chair as if Lucius himself had stepped into the room to scold him on his bad posture. Then, upon seeing her defiant gaze twinkle with mischief, he relaxed and sent her an annoyed smirk.

"After myself, who could possibly satisfy you?"

"Harry," was her immediate and dishonest response, for she felt that a lie about a threesome with the twins would have been a bit too much for the prisoner.

Draco merely rolled his eyes. "Please, Hermione. He's gay."

"A term that possesses very little requirements, apparently. He said he thought you were as well."

"His wishful thinking."

"Of course," she answered dryly.

"Still haven't answered my question."

"About why am I here? Well, if you're so irked with my presence, I suppose I'll be on my way..."

Hermione had barely left the table before she found herself physically stopped. She felt the edge of the table on her backside and two strong arms on either side of her. The most disconcerting thing of all was Draco's face perilously close to hers.

"Now, Hermione, dear, love," he said in what he hoped was a soothing tone, though by the widening of her chocolate eyes he guessed it came across as scheming. Draco leaned forward and Hermione unknowingly leaned back. "Won't you be ever so kind as to satisfy my curiosity and tell me why, exactly, you felt the sudden need to see my handsome face again? And why, perhaps in correlation, Potter was behaving stranger than usual?"

Because his body was pressing so suggestively against hers, Hermione felt compelled to say in a flat voice, "I don't believe it's your 'curiosity' that needs satisfying."

He smiled disarmingly, and gave her wink. "No need to get antsy, love. We'll get to that later." Before she could reply, Draco once again leaned further and, in with stubborn resistance that her body heartily protested, Hermione once again leaned further back. She felt a slight ache in her spine at being arched so awkwardly.

"Draco, stop it," she snapped, suddenly not in the mood for games. "This position cannot possibly be good for the baby."

"The baby?" he repeated, eyebrows rising in confusion. Then he _tsked_ in an infuriating way and said, "It's bad enough to be referring to yourself in third person, Hermione, but 'baby'? It's so prurient..."

While he was distracted with lecturing her about the finer points of loving endearments, Hermione took the opportunity to push him off her body and then settled herself in the chair again.

"Oh you bloody idiot," she sighed crossly. "I meant our baby."

He frowned and stood in deep thought for a moment, arms crossed in a manner that Hermione found offensive, as if _she_ was the one ready to attack him with bouts of sex.

"But we haven't a baby," he ventured uncertainly.

"Oh yes we do," she contradicted instantly, smiling a bit, for his sake, as nervousness was clearly overtaking his body.

Draco sat down. Not opposite her, as sensible people would have, but at her feet, as if the distance between himself and the chair was too immense to attempt during this very important moment of his life.

For the very first time, Hermione witnessed Draco Malfoy in utter bewilderment. He had borne falling in love with a muggle with the greatest of ease, killed both villains and heroes with very little trouble, and kidnaped and plotted impossible romantic schemes with admirable success. But taking in the information of a partially Malfoy embryo was, apparently, too much for Draco to handle.

"A baby?" he repeated, his voice cracking slightly, reminding Hermione that he was only nineteen, and she eighteen. "My baby?"

She ought to have been offended, but instead found his rising bafflement a bit comical. "Unless gay Harry's managed to do something naughty while I slept, then yes, I believe it to be yours."

He did not even appear to have heard her little joke. "How much?"

Puzzlement pushed Hermione's amusement aside. "How much what?"

Draco did not have a firm grasp of the idea himself. "Well...how much pregnancy is there? I mean, on the scale of one to ten—"

"Please do not tell me you are equating my delicate condition on one through ten," she warned in exasperation. Men.

"Well, then...when?"

"When did it happen, or when is it due? Because, the exact date of fertilization, as we both know, would be a bit of a mystery to me..."

"No, no, I meant the latter."

"December."

"Oh." Was it her imagination, or did he seem horribly disappointed by the response? What did that mean? Was December too far way? Or was it simply too soon? Before she could subtly question him about the nuances of "Oh," Draco spoke again.

"Then it won't interfere with the Triad of the spell, will it?" he sighed with a crestfallen expression. "Trust my son to have bad timing like that."

"Yes," she agreed, no small amount of sarcasm in her tone. "For that would be the sole reason to have a child. To interfere with an illegal spell."

He fiddled with his shoe lace in irritation. "That's not what I meant."

"Oh no, but it was the first thing that came to mind, wasn't it?"

"Well..." Draco saw no point lying and shrugged. He tilted his head and studied her critically, with so much scientific calculating in his eyes that Hermione nearly wished for the lustful gazes again. "Are you feeling okay?"

Startled, Hermione spoke confusedly. "Yes."

"You sure? Pregnancies, I've heard, are rather taxing on mothers."

"Fathers too, you know."

He made a noncommittal noise, and glanced around his room. "Should you be resting?" he prompted with some concern. "Or eating, or something?"

"Honestly, Draco, I'm fine."

"I've a bed."

"Yes, I know you have a bed, it's sitting right over there in plain sight." One corner of his lips drooped in an annoyed half frown, and searched around the room again.

"I have some orange juice too, if you want that."

"Too much folic acid isn't good for the baby," she told him knowingly, having read and memorized most of the obstetrician's informative posters. Informative and paranoid. Too much of anything, it seemed, was not good for a baby.

He shrugged. "But if you want it," he continued as if she hadn't spoken at all.

"No thank you," she answered, this time even more confused than before. Was he suffering from short term hearing loss? Or did he simply not care?

"Eggs. I have some eggs leftover from—"

"And how do you know," Hermione began as if continuing a conversation, "that this is a boy? Would you be terribly disappointed with a girl?"

"What's that cliché saying?" he chuckled. "I don't care if it's a boy or a girl; as long as you're healthy."

_It_ , she corrected mentally while he stood and stretched. As long as _it's_ healthy.

"I've already spoken with the administration," she said when he sat across from her again, and took both her hands into his own. "I'm afraid they wouldn't hear of allowing you antenatal appointments." Draco, much to her dismay, was not terribly disappointed by the news. He was delighted, however, to learn that since this was half his baby, she would be visiting him more and more.

"As much as your condition allows," he then advised sternly. "I won't have you traipsing here against your better health just because the little thing has to see his father."

But Hermione hadn't been listening. Hermione was, as no one would be surprised to see, thinking with her utmost concentration. "Oh you spoiled child," she declared suddenly, rising from her seat. Draco looked mildly alarmed and told her not to upset herself.

"Upset myself? What of the baby, Draco, what of _that_? Oh don't think I don't know what you know," she told him with an accusatory eye.

"All right," he surrendered, though a bit confused, to say the least.

"You're not even concerned about the baby!" she very nearly shrieked.

"To be fair, Hermione, I haven't even met the bloke," he pointed out in an, what Hermione thought to be, insanely reasonable tone. "How do we even know the little monster will be nice?"

"It's your baby you bloody idiot," she exclaimed with surprise. "You can't expect babies to be nice."

"Oh yes I can, especially if it's a Malfoy. We have impeccable manners, you know."

"And I suppose making snap judgments on your own unborn offspring is merely an example of your illustrious etiquette?"

"Well, it's never too early to burden him with high expectations," was the outrageous response.

A small part of her was disappointingly unsurprised. Draco, it could be said, was impossibly selfish. The only reason he would care for somebody else was if, somehow, that somebody contributed to his own happiness. And so far, Draco had never had to devote himself to something he was not sure he liked; in this case, that "something" being a "baby." Also, he had had nearly half a year with Hermione, without having to share her with anybody else. Now, with this new development in mind, one could understand why he was not as overjoyed as most fathers-to-be were.

"Honestly, Draco, I could strangle you right now. You're impossible."

"Now, now, don't strain yourself." He braced himself and made a small effort to show some concern for the child, even if it was false. "Wouldn't want to hurt the little monster, now, would we?"

"Oh don't," she warned him, already heading for the door.

"Don't what?"

"Don't act all concerned. You don't think of this as a baby at all."

"Don't I?" Would it be laying it on too thick, he wondered privately, to call it a "joyous miracle of life"? Hermione didn't give him enough to time come up with a better term for it.

"No. You, Draco Malfoy, believe this to be some sort of contract. That this 'little monster' as you so lovingly call it, will be a means to an end. You wanted a way for us to be together forever, and a child, you believe, will certainly guarantee that."

Draco sat in meditative silence, wondering how on earth she had analysed his feelings so swiftly and accurately. Then he wondered how to convincingly lie to her.

Perhaps an illustration of his newfound thoughtfulness to the little brat?

"Now, Hermione," he soothed, rising from his chair, "our baby will be so much more than that. Much, much, much more."

His former wife paused uncertainly at the door, her hand resting on the knob. "Then what will it be, Draco?"

Draco shuffled from one foot to the other, not really expecting to be quizzed on the rubbish he had just said. "Um...Crookshanks' new play mate?"

He hoped that satisfied her. But Draco could not discern whether or not it had, for the door slammed with finality in his face.

xoxox

**sex raises some pretty good questions."**

**Woody Allen**


	13. The Other Brother

**Well, what could have kept me, you may wonder. **

**I have acquired a new job, a new computer, and a new college major.**

**So, naturally, I've been very busy, and despite the new hassles, I must say I'm very grateful for all my good fortune. As any proper good girl would do, I must thank Somebody for all my blessings.**

**Dear ABC and J.J. Abrams: Thank you ever so much for bringing my favorite hobbit into my living room every Wednesday night. I believe Dom is the best druggie-band-burn-out-stranded-on-island character on television, and everybody knows competition is very stiff in that category.**

**LatentBeauty**: Thank you! I hope you've finished reading all the chapters, so that your question is answered. And, if you haven't read the whole thing, it still works. Let me explain.

So, Hermione works at Beauxbatons. Draco still supposedly works at the Ministry of Magic. As it is Draco's inherited home, and also conveniently still in the same country of Draco's profession, it would make sense for the couple to continue living in the UK. Hermione simply still works and lives at Beauxbatons during the school season, and returns home during the holidays.

BUT, obviously, it's not how things turned out.

Hope you enjoy the rest of the story!

**instar**: Now, now, you know well enough by now that "update soon" is just as effective as "love draco" to me. It's an impossible request. Still, your persistence is admirable. :0)

**Cat**: Nobody did see it coming, apparently. Least of all Hermione:0)

Well, I guess it wasn't the most romantic reunion scene ever written, but at least nobody was slapped again. Though Draco did earn a good smacking! Of course, Draco is pleased with the pregnancy...just not in the way that any normal human being would like. I mean, who thinks "Yay, having a little monster, ticket to Hermione!" It's a leetle bit wrong...

I'm glad that you survived! With college alone I have trouble; add children to the mix and you have one dead Adelaide E. I didn't know anybody could be cheered up with the last chapter (considering what a git Draco was being) but it's good to know that it helped somebody.

It would have been wrong, obviously, if Dumbledore did not twinkle his eyes at least once. It would be like Harry without his scar...oops, taken care of that already, haven't I? And, with or without his scar, I say he still has some good reasoning. Considering how very pale and screwed up Draco is, the suspicion of incest is VERY plausible. And I bet, if JK Rowling was to dwell upon it, she'd write Draco having crossed eyes or an extra toe or something like that...

Oh yay! Somebody noticed the brotherly love Harry has for Hermione and vice versa. I suppose it's an age old question: Can a boy and a girl simply be friends? Some have already expressed the possibility of Harry and Hermione hooking up, but, honestly, can't two beings of the opposite sex have excellent rapport without being suspected of romance? I think so.

Their relationship is more advanced, due to Ron's absence. Obviously, Harry would be more comfortable speaking to Ron about certain things, but with only Hermione as an outlet, their relationship has grown more intimate, which makes me oh so happy, because I love Harry.

I'm sorry my humor has kept your daughter awake! I take full responsibility for my irresponsible use of funny-ness. Honestly now, my goal isn't to make people laugh; it's to have a realistic story. And I know, dark, angsty fics are mostly dark and angsty, but I can't imagine real life being that way. Sometimes, at a funeral, one feels the urge to laugh. And sometimes, at a party, one feels the urge to cry (even eight year old parties!). So, in my story, I tried to fuse in both aspects, despite the inappropriate times I sprinkle them in!

Believe me, this is the first time I've been intimidated by readers' response. Usually, I'm the most heartless author, but, with this fic, I decided I wouldn't be cruel. If I was going by my old code of writing, Draco would be near death by now, with Hermione as his accidental killer...now that would be REALLY bitchy of me. Do you know, I've been called a bitch so many times I'm starting to believe I am one! But, I've put off believing this, because those who have called me that were total ass holes, and that completely cancels the merit of their insult...

I'm glad the fic puts you in a good mood! I can always tell I'm writing all right if my story draws some sort of emotion from the readers! I guess the way the Ron/Hermione aspect is growing on you in the way that Draco/Hermione is growing on me. It's like a disease or something! It would be great if Draco and Ron get a Hermione each, but an ending that far fetched is beyond my talents...:0)

Well, I'm not imprisoned or anything, so I can safely assume that the government is far too busy looking for excuses for their mistakes to look for possible censorship possibilities in Harry Potter fanfiction! Don't worry, I'll finish...I think...just kidding! I will, I will...

**Delovely**: It IS weird, isn't it? That people as young as Harry and Hermione should be thinking about family plans and housing and such? I can barely decide what I'll wear tomorrow, let alone anything so monumental as my baby's daddy's jail time! Um, on a side note, I have no baby's daddy, nor do I have a baby...right. Any way, Ron is NOT dead. Much as everybody would wish it so, Harry's explained it. He's just explained it in a psycho, desperate, don't-believe-me-I'm-obviously-traumatized sorta way. Any way, Neville being scared of mushrooms is a sign of adulthood. I don't know HOW exactly, but one must be optimistic when it comes to him.

**Sissiro**: Hello! Aw, shucks, thanks for the compliment! I never thought I'd have a thing for Draco/Hermione fics either, but all the potential angst and complication was just too good to resist! I hope you like Ron as well! And I know the update was a little bit past "SOON"...eek, sorry!

**BeethovenFA03**: I imagined that if you read this mammoth of a story in one sitting you'd have to amputate your butt from lack of circulation. On that pleasant note, I'll move on...

Yeah...smiles...plot twists...aren't they great? I'm one of those story cheaters (where I go the last page or last chapter and see how it all turns out) and so, in an effort to foil people like me, I make it so the last chapter can in no way tell what happened in its predecessors. Evil, I know.

About the ensuing panic and hysteria...erm, can't say anything really, without giving a few more twists away. Thanks!

**Crystallized Snow **(or Monica, whichever you prefer): No, no, I wasn't complaining about short reviews. Like I've said, I don't care what kind of review you give, I'll always appreciate it. I was just merely comparing my on-and-on-ness to your rational length. I'm glad to hear that you liked the title. I have a silly love for alliteration, and it took forever to get it right and appropriate.

Yes, this is the fic with the mild (I hope it was mild!) critcism of the hackneyed DM/HG plot devices. Good lord, have I written so much that my readers have forgotten what's happened seven chapters ago? ACK! It's hella long, I know! I don't like things to be so long, but I can't help it! You know how I write my readers' responses!

So, I will end this with: all right, I will post more!

**Fizzie-lizzie**:

1) Clearly, I am copying your format.

2) Thanks a bunch.

3)Loved The Princess Bride beyond the definition of literary love (those last two words can be interpreted as porno, but I'll just hope that nobody will notice that...)

**sugar n spice 522**: Oh, but sex, besides complicating things, makes things so very interesting as well. And I love babies! Can't have babies without sex! (That last sentence, I imagine, will never make it onto a doctor's office poster.) And, when I contemplated killing off Draco, I meant killing him off AFTER we got Ron back. So, you know, he could say he did ONE good thing before he died. But, it will never be an issue, because I've been threatened and warned against killing him off. Sigh.

**J Deann**: Let's see...is there anything to make Draco an unselfish, mature young chin, deep in thought...I KNOW! DEATH! Yeah, death is a major maturity booster. And, technically, in Draco's defense (um, I never thought I'd be defending Draco, but stranger things have happened) he DOES care for another person. Hermione! True, he only cared for Hermione because she contributed to HIS happiness...wow, what a bad job of defending Draco. It just goes to show me I should never try that again. Thanks!

**Dastardly Snail**: It was surprising for both reader and character. Poor thing. I can't imagine being pregnant at my age. Then again, Hermione is a little old lady trapped in a young girl's body... It was such a short scene ( the chemist) and yet, everybody seemed to love it! Oh, and don't worry, I won't let the Man get me down (notice the capitalization). The Man can imprison me, censor me, and tax me, but he will never get me down!

They'll never take...OUR FREEDOM! Okay, that's enough sillyness.

**Athena Linborn**: Yeah, paranoia must always be satisfied, or it changes into outright madness. And I don't think I've reached that point YET...

Yes, Draco is rather asinine, but, it would have been strange if he gushed and danced with joy, wouldn't it? I mean, he didn't even like sharing Hermione with Crookshanks, and he was only a cat...

I actually couldn't imagine how he would have reacted if he was in the pregnancy testing aisle, considering Rowling hasn't (and never will, I guess) write that scenario for us. I just wrote it how my guy friends would react to being in that aisle.

Yeah, I guess this update wasn't very soon! My bad.

I figured if I killed off Draco, Crookshanks could inherit the role of Git in Story. I mean, they did spend a lot of time together, sorta.

But, that will never happen either!

**Onion Layers**: Yeah, I thought the new playmate thing was funny too, but apparently, everybody else was very indignant. On Hermione's behalf, I guess. Actually, I wanted to do more than hit him...something along the lines of writing his demise...but I've been foiled. So, we'll just settle for imprisoning him at the moment.

The Dumbledore dialogue was mostly inspired by the third movie Dumbledore. I mean, I loved Richard Harris, but he was so dignified that he was a bit intimidating. Gambone is more of that kooky, comfortable sort of headmaster, with whom you could joke around but still respect. Thanks for the thanks!

**oli**: Okay weirdo, stop the moans or I'll hit you. How I'd manage physical contact through the computer, I'm not quite sure, but I'll find a way:0)

Yeah, yeah, yeah...I mean, you know I like writing death scenes. Draco's death scene would have been WONDERFUL! He would have been redeemed beyond all his sins. BUT...that's impossible now. :0(

Yes, Draco's a baby-hating bastard. Let's hang him.

Or not, since we can't kill him. Damn, I keep forgetting that!

Wow, my vocabulary has just increased. Up the duff? Quoi? That "eating cameras" joke is a result of my own stupidity. When I first heard the phrase "The camera adds ten pounds," I first thought that it meant that, after eating them, you gain weight. Yeah, I was a child prodigy, can you tell?

RIGHT, just because DRACO happens to mention it, then Harry's gay? Frankly, I don't think I'd trust him to give me the right time of day.

Aw, yay, you liked Discovering Distraction! I've discovered that I like any pairing when it's well written. Oh, and don't worry, you didn't pressure me about the nightworld story. I've just been pressuring myself. I'm weird that way. I hope you survive the exams! (um...whinge?)

**earth-guide**: Hello, long time no see! Then again, I never actually SAW you in the first place, so I can't really say that...er...type that, technically...

I didn't know it was possible for Draco to be "too smooth." I mean, that's his character, right? Yeah, Mione's in love and preggers, but I can't imagine many other girls would hate to be in her situation. Hey now, you thought Harry's gay? I never said that! DRACO said that, but then again, he's not the most honest person now, is he? AND HEY! Just who said FRED was gay? Are all these characters coming out without my knowledge? Damn it! I'm way behind!

Thanks!

**otakuannie**: Of course I'd never redeem him. He's beyond redemption. Unless, of course, I killed him. Everybody can become redeemed through death. But, it seems everybody is against that plot device, so he'll stay the heartless bastard he is. I know, multi-update days/weeks are very rare for me, and I highly doubt that occasion will happen again...maybe around Christmas or something.

Technically, Ron and Hermione are NOT cannon pairings because Ron and Hermione have not been officially paired up. IF Hermione's meant to be with a Slytherin, I would hope it was Blaise. It's not that I particularly like him (I mean, we don't know much about him, except that he's a boy and possibly Italian) but since he's the least mean out of all the Slytherins, I prefer him over Draco.

"...or the twins." Annie...you PERV! Hermione can't get two guys! That's greedy and immoral! Not to mention confusing...but obviously, I like Ron. And, I like Harry as well, but not so much that I'd hook him up with Hermione. That would be unnatural.

I didn't add the pregnancy to add tension or complications, though those are pluses. I added it because it would be logical. After all, nearly seven months with one's husband and no form of contraceptive whatsoever? Hermione had all those chances to be pregnant, and it would have been unrealistic for me to totally ignore the possibility.

Thanks for the long review!

Sorry for the wait!

**smaloukis:** Heylo! One of the few, the proud, the wise who actually did not mind the Draco-ness (or lack thereof). And, what do you mean, you can't stand the guy much? Is that my fault? Oh joy! Have converted a Draco lover into a Ron lover? Not that that's my goal or anything (shifty eyes)... Yes, I do have a habit of sticking in babies into stories whenever I can. There's so many jokes to be made when it comes to the little monsters. Oh yes, I can't wait until I get Ron up and running. And, of course, there's a LOT of hell to be had before Hermione gets her happy ending, but never fear. I'm way to attached to her to have her not get a happy ending!

The Painted Past

Chapter 13

**My life closed twice before its close–**

**It yet remains to see**

xoxox

As Hermione shut the door behind her, she quickly whirled to face the world, ready to challenge it with her baby and without her baby's demented father. The young witch did not face the world, however, and only Harry. With a bizarre sense of deja vu, their bodies bumped against each other once more, but, thankfully, this time around he was more interested in seeing her.

"Tea and biscuits?" she demanded testily as she walked briskly towards the office. He fell into step beside her, only whistling innocently as a response.

After she had signed out, and handed the clipboard to Harry, he murmured, "You were in there for quite some time."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Just what was the appropriate time frame to tell a selfish lover that he was the father of her unwanted child? And, even if such a thing did exist, what did pregnancy-ignorant Harry know about it?

"You weren't...er..." He faltered as she pressed the button for the lift. "Making another baby in there, were you?"

Hermione became so annoyed she thought she would explode. Good lord, did the boy ever miss out on the Talk! Perhaps she should have asked Mr. Weasley to include Harry in the lesson when the bumbling man had belatedly delivered the "birds and the bees" speech to sixteen year old Ron.

"Harry," she said seriously...so seriously, in fact, that he leaned forward with grave interest. "Harry, I think...I mean, I _know_..."

"What?" he demanded, almost sternly, as if they were discussing a rescue mission and not the recent, ridiculous events.

She stepped into the open lift, and stared at him, markedly bored. "You are the saddest excuse of male ignorance I have ever had the misfortune to meet."

It was not what he expected–whatever that might have been. Probably along the lines of "Draco's planning a devious and Draconious scheme." Not an insult to his intellect.

"You are very lucky that I have a healthy self esteem," he scolded her as he joined her just before the doors slid shut. "Otherwise, I would die from lack of praise."

"And what would you have me praise? The fact that you thought tackling pregnant women meant dented headed babies? The fact that you thought 'antenatal classes' meant courses against pregnancy? The fact that you think I would be making another baby during my short conversation with Draco?"

Harry, who had been growing rather bored with her rising mockery, idly reached up to trace the underside of one of the flapping paper air planes. When the molested message slapped his offending finger with a wing, he looked down and answered her. "Well, when you phrase it that way, I look incredibly stupid."

"And what way would you have me phrase it?"

"The nice way," he answered simply. Hermione watched with amusement as Harry's green eyes widened upon the discovery of a paper cut. He glared at the paper air plane. "The better way." His hand reached up once more, this time to slap the hovering plane against the wall. "The untruthful way."

"Oh that's so like men!" Hermione huffed, watching with some pity as the now crumpled message fell dizzily to the ground. "To manipulate things to their liking, without any regard to how others feel! That is so like yo–"

"Hang on!" Harry protested, "You can't say that! Women do it too!" He pursed his lips when he saw she was stubbornly maintaining her man-hating position. "Well, you've never been a man–"

"Thank god for that," she muttered.

"And, I, as well, hope that would never happen, for what a sad excuse of manliness you would be. I am merely trying to say that, until you've been a man, you can't criticize us so. It's difficult to be a proper male and avoid offending your sex as well. In fact, considering the verbal survival we manage to achieve everyday with such sensitive women, I believe I very much admire my half of the population."

"What you call 'verbal survival' we call common sense, Harry," she wryly. "We can't help it if we happen to be intelligent enough to pick up the subtleties of your oh so complex grunts and belches."

"I don't appreciate your superior-because-I-am-smuggling-babies tone of voice very much, Hermione."

"I don't appreciate your entire half of the population, so I'd say you have more to apologise for."

"Women," he sighed, speaking to the flying, sexless beings above them. "One is very tempted to give up on them altogether."

Hermione giggled, and Harry, surprised to hear such a carefree sound from her, smiled. "So," he began jovially, "what did the little ferret have to say?"

Hermione's eyes focused somewhere between his eyes. "He was pleased," she responded evenly, and refused to offer more. She did not want to admit that Draco was not as wonderful as her heart believed. She did not want to admit that he was every bit the bastard everybody believed him to be. She did not want to admit that perhaps, he was not the best man for her soul.

"Hmm," Harry replied, feigning disinterest. She knew that sound. She knew that it meant he did not believe her, and, that he pitied her, somewhat, for continuing her silly little hope of redeeming him. Even now, Hermione closed her eyes, reviewing the conversation, searching desperately for a few words Draco might have dropped that suggested he cared for the baby entirely...

Her mind stumbled over some of Draco's particular words.

She opened her eyes once more, only to find Harry angling his head so that, perhaps, he could see the messages with the light pouring through the paper. He was dressed rather sharply, she noticed, with the crisp, tan trousers nicely contrasting his blue polo shirt. The buttons, she noticed with some shock, of the polo were an exact match of the buttons on the trousers, and his belt and shoes were the same color. His hair had been neatly combed, and upon his face, he held an attractively aloof expression. Few men could dress or hold themselves with such an air of careless confidence successfully...well, few straight men, any way...

If the thought didn't always send her into a fit of revulsion, Hermione imagined she would have been quite in love with Harry, at least on the superficial level.

"If you are undressing me with your eyes," he suddenly said with a martyred sigh, staring up at the ceiling as he rocked on his heels, "then I'll allow it, for pregnant women, it is well known, are horny as hell. Also, I am irresistible to all living things."

"And who's told you this fib?" Hermione asked tartly, embarrassed to be caught staring.

"My clients." Hermione frowned in confusion, and Harry tsked with impatience. "Come on, Hermione, from my prostitution life. What good is an inside joke if the insiders forget it?"

"There are no outsiders to hear it," she pointed out, and then immediately felt guilty for doing so. "It's just that...well...how fond of you of your gender?"

Harry leaned back with raised eyebrows, obviously never encountering the question before now. "Well, considering I'm an active participant of the male community, I can't say I've anything to complain about."

"I mean...er, Draco said..."

When had been the last time Harry had been linked to a girl? Hermione racked her mind to remember. Obviously, there had been Ginny, but Harry was never obvious about his affection for her, and, before and during the war, he barely had time to exchange two words with the young Weasley. Since then...well, Hermione had no idea how many changes he had experienced during his time away.

"How fond are you of other participants?" she rephrased delicately.

The doors slid open to liberate a few of the paper air planes, and Harry waited until they were closed once more before he answered. He moved to stand directly before, bent at the knees slightly to meet her eyes, and then said suspiciously:

"I'm beginning to suspect something that you might be suspecting, but then I suspect that I won't like the suspicion."

"Well, it's just that, Draco mentioned–"

"You didn't believe me when I said that he was gay," he pointed out, crossing his arms like an irate six year old.

"Obviously, I was in a position to prove his heterosexuality," she snapped, growing sheepish. "Besides, your clothes..."

Harry looked down to scan his attire. "What of them?"

"They're very nice."

His eyes widened. "I recall a certain somebody giving me a five hour long speech as to why one must not wear black shoes with a brown belt. Now, that same somebody is criticizing me when I happen to dress correctly?"

"You don't normally," she argued weakly.

"Obviously to avoid silly notions like yours," he retorted.

Harry's offense lasted only five more seconds, which ended three seconds after they had stepped out of the lift and into the atrium. "Do you know, I imagine it would be infinitely easier for me if I were gay."

Now he was teasing her, and she couldn't stand it. It only further proved her silliness.

Still, he was waiting for her response, so she only murmured a nonchalant, "Really."

"Yes. You've no idea how much fan mail is sitting at Number Twelve. A rumour of homosexuality would probably stop the silly little fan girls...though, perhaps, it would encourage fan boys, and I imagine that they would be harder to beat off. Preteens females, you know, are frail, easily weakened creatures."

"Harry!" Try as she might, but Hermione could not restrain the laughter in her voice.

"Also, I would never have to deal with monthly mood swings. I'd never have to deal with romantic comedy movies. And, should we move in together, I'd never have to worry about lowering the toilet seat. Come to think of it, how does that work? Who takes whose name? Does one flip a coin?"

"I'll let you know when I marry my wife," she responded with acidic cheer. By this time they had stepped out of the telephone booth, and were nearly a block away.

"Now, now, he may be dainty, but don't go around changing Malfoy's sex without his permission," Harry chided with a grin.

"Damn!" she suddenly muttered, stopping before they crossed a street.

"Did I win? Did I just beat you in a battle of wits?" Harry asked eagerly.

"Has hell frozen over?" Hermione shot back, matching his absurdly happy tone. Harry's face settled into a storm of unfriendliness as he watched her turn away from him, muttering, "No, I just meant to look up something in the records. Damn it, we just left..."

As she strode back to the booth, she heard Harry call for her to wait.

"What are you doing?"

"Escorting you."

"Yes, I can see that. Why?"

"Because it's what my sex does, Hermione," he informed her with maddening condescension. "Escort women, occasionally knock them up...oh, and yes, arouse their suspicion of team-changing whenever we happen to dress well."

She had no witty comeback for that one, so Hermione settled for slamming the door on his hand. Harry glared at her impressively, for it had been the same hand that had been wounded by the paper plane earlier.

"You can't do that, you know," he said primly as they sunk beneath the sidewalk. "Strike your children whenever they annoy you."

"I would never!" Hermione gasped, taken aback by the insinuation. "Violence never solves anything, and so using fists instead of words would set a horrible example–"

"No, no, that's not it!" he chuckled. "I'm just saying that, inevitably, your child will grow much larger than you. Larger, and more importantly stronger. They'll be twenty, they'll remember the spankings, and then, my dear, you will pay."

The doors slid open to reveal the main floor, and Hermione sighed with another rolling of her eyes. Heaven forbid Harry would ever be blessed with progeny, for they would be the most confused, ignorant children on the planet.

"When you are 'smuggling' a baby in your uterus, Harry, I'll take your words of wisdom seriously," she drawled as she stepped off. His best friend was very happy that he could not see her face, for Hermione was very near laughing when she heard him say, with exaggerated childishness:

"_Ew_! She said 'uterus'!"

xoxox

It was inevitable, Harry supposed, that this would happen.

George, after all, was not the most trustworthy of Weasleys.

And Hermione, understandably distracted, was not around to ensure prevention.

But really, he reflected as an unseen blow was landed on his stomach, was it necessary of Fred to show his welcome so violently?

"Merlin's beard, Harry," Fred said now, "You're so thin and dainty you look like a woman!"

"That's what I said!" George said with delight.

It was quite ridiculous how Harry's discovery happened. Only a few minutes after Hermione's rather snobbish departure, Harry had been in his normal sneaking about routine when he spotted George. And he knew it was George, because his left eye was bruised from Harry's fist only two days prior. And, like any hungry and honourable wizard would do, Harry attempted to see if he could persuade the twin into buying him lunch.

"Hullo George!" he said heartily, quickly shaking off his unassuming posture. "What're you doing here?"

George was visibly bewildered, becoming white as a ghost, and Harry, because he lacked the intelligence of his pregnant friend, chalked it up to his sudden appearance. George was, after all, unused to seeing Harry outside Hermione's flat.

"I...I was giving Dad his lunch...I'm sorry, but you look awfully like Harry Potter!" he exclaimed. "Have you heard that before?"

Harry frowned, not at all comprehending. "You git, I am Harry Potter."

"No you're not," the twin instantly contradicted. "Harry Potter, you great arse, has a scar on his forehead and much more muscles."

"Well," Harry said, drawing himself up in his annoyance, "this great arse happens to be the same, sufficiently muscled wizard who gave you that black eye, in case you've forgotten!"

"No he didn't! George did!"

"How can you give yourself a black eye if...Oh fuck," he swore suddenly.

Oh fuck indeed. For realisation hit them at exactly the same time, and Fred was just as exuberant as his brother was upon finding their long lost friend.

But before Fred's "Where the bloody hell have you been?" could echo over the entire Ministry, Harry had apparated both of them to Hermione's flat.

"Uh oh," was Freddie's first response after observing their new surroundings. His eyes were focused with abnormal concentration—for a Weasley twin, at any rate—on his forehead. "Better go back, 'Harry.' You've forgotten your scar somewhere."

"I swear, it's as if the stupidity reserved to be distributed evenly on the whole of humanity has been deposited generously on both you and your brother's head. The scar's gone, you stupid sod."

Harry, had he attempted a bit more consideration, would have realised that insulting Fred Weasley, brother of late Ron Weasley and jilted Ginny Weasley, was not the best thing to do, especially with so many big words. For he barely had time to ensure his long sleeve hid his other scar before he was tackled with the inhumanly stupid wizard, and broke the new coffee table.

"Wait, wait," Harry had sputtered, rolling out from under him. "I can explain everything."

"Die impostor, die!" was the unexpected war cry as Fred, so like his brother it was a bit scary, brandished a broken table leg.

Luckily for the impostor, who was contemplating the exact dangers of jumping out the window, a certain red haired young man came strolling in from the loo.

"Hullo," he said with some surprise. "What've we here?"

"Quick, George," Fred called out, "Kill the impostor!"

George, who had been casually reaching for a glass to fill with home brought pumpkin juice, now jumped with panic. He dropped the glass—and Harry frowned, for he was certain the twin would not clean it up later—and reached to the nearest available weapon. Which happened to be arthritis cream Harry had forgotten on the table.

"Oh yes," Harry said acidly, "go ahead and take the aches and pains out of me, I'm so terrified."

"Do not flirt with my brother, Impostor Harry!" Fred turned slightly to see what I.H. was so skeptic about and glowered at his twin. "Honestly, that's the best you can do?"

"Well look at you," Harry said with a snort, "In case you've forgotten, we're all the wizards here. You can kill people with your _wand_."

The Weasleys looked properly ashamed with their immediate reaction, and lowered their weapons sulkily.

"Oh and," George was somewhat motivated to clarify after doing so, "Harry's not an impostor."

"Oh," Fred said, a bit surprised. "Oh, all right then. Sorry about that."

Harry had been about to forgive them, truly he was, until he was tackled again, but this time without homicidal intent.

Which was how he ended up in this present situation. Battered, bruise, and utterly baleful towards the twins.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Fred demanded George, ignoring Harry's dramatic clutching of his bruised ribs.

"Didn't I? Swore I did."

"No you didn't, I would've remembered."

"Good point, good point. I suppose I forgot."

"You forgot that Harry Potter was alive and well and hiding from the rest of us?"

"Well, look at him, Fred. There's not much to remember now, is there? That scrawny body, and then that ugly face? Very forgettable, he is."

After short scrutiny, Fred turned to his brother and agreed whole heartedly. Harry rose quickly, lest they found their second wind for good old fashioned brotherly wrestling, and began to repair the table and sweep up the broken glass.

Knowing their conversation of him was annoying the great and powerful wizard, Fred raised his voice just loud enough for his ears. "And look at him doing house work, George! So prettily! If he cooks as well as he cleans, I'm afraid I'll have to take him out on a date." The pair laughed delightedly at Harry's impressive scowl, and were unknowingly about to be the subject of a rather nasty hex when the door suddenly swung open.

"Oh, Harry, don't!" Hermione cried, her reaction immediate and without any meditation. Of course, she should have known that the twins had done something to warrant retaliation, but she wasn't in the mood to clean up the mess afterward.

"Yes Harry!" George's tone was indignant as he stood on the couch in the living room to glare with false anger at Harry, who stood in the kitchen. "It's tremendously immoral of you to skip around, hexing defenseless wizards! Why, it's almost as if you're..."

"An impostor!" Fred cried with a disturbing amount of zeal, and brandished his wand like a fleurette in Harry's direction. Then he swung the instrument to Hermione. "This one too, George, for she's at least two stones lighter than her chocolate frog card picture!"

Hermione maturely ignored the insult and stared with wide eyes at Fred. Then her gaze swung to George and back to Fred. Before she could stare at George again, Fred spoke up.

"Better stare at me, love," he laughed. "I'm the dashing one, after all."

"Oh Fred!" she said, shutting the door behind her. Hermione began to walk towards him as fast as she spoke. "Oh, Fred, I'm sorry, I truly am, but Harry felt it better that only very few people should know about him, and I agreed. You understand, don't you Fred? I am very, very—"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Fred sighed, and hugged her to him with one arm. "Don't fret your pretty little head about it. Though I admit," he said with an annoyed blue gaze directed at Potter, "it's nice that _somebody_ is apologising for leaving me in the dark. Me, of all people! You tell George, but not the dashing one?"

Hermione, who was very tired after her day, let out a bubbly laugh before she could help it. Fred was enormously pleased with himself for making stern Hermione Granger laugh, and pulled her onto the drowning couch to sit with him.

"Well, I suppose it's convenient that you're here," she said a bit timidly, as she hadn't told anybody except Harry of the pregnancy. "You too George," she called to the other twin, who was fascinated with the new television, which Harry insisted on buying.

"Hmm? What is it?" George asked as he sat himself on a cushioned chair. "You're not in love with me, I hope? Because, it would be terribly awkward, Hermione, as my success will only shadow your fame—"

"George, if you're going to joke," Harry called from the kitchen, putting the arthritis cream to proper use, "at least say something remotely realistic."

"You've really got to put in an advertisement, Hermione," George said snidely. "The help is getting rather impertinent."

"Boys, really," Hermione scolded with a frown. It was not dramatically necessary, Hermione was well aware, that these twins knew about the pregnancy. But, after everything, she was irreversibly against secrets between loved ones.

"I'm pregnant with Draco Malfoy's baby," she said bluntly before any more jokes could be made.

The effect was impressive.

Both twins were so surprised that they stayed quiet for more than two minutes.

"Bloody hell!" Fred then exclaimed, jumping off the couch as if it had been set on fire. "Bloody hell, what are we going to do?"

"I don't know!" George declared as if Fred had been sincerely seeking an answer from him. "Should we call somebody?"

"Who do we call?"

"I don't know anything about babies!"

"Neither do I!"

"Why are you two acting so irrationally?" Hermione wanted to know with mounting irritation.

"Perhaps it's because you're in the family way with the antichrist?" Harry suggested sweetly and Hermione raised her hand to show him a very rude finger.

"Does that mean I'm number one?" Harry asked innocently.

By this time the twins had calmed down enough to resume their seating.

"The family way?" Freddie repeated questioningly.

"North by north east?" George suggested idiotically.

"Ginny was a horrible baby," Fred suddenly remembered.

"Yes, especially after we found out she wasn't a boy."

"It's not right, for a girl to have such a short hair cut."

"Well I'm sure she couldn't help it!" Harry cried out defensively. "She was a _baby_!"

"Oy, I don't recall big head Harry Potter around when Ginny was a baby," George pointed out.

"Boys," Hermione sighed, feeling a migraine creeping upon her. "Fred, George? You're not very upset?"

The boys paused in their ridiculous conversation to observe her. George spoke first.

"Why do they always say Fred first? Is it alphabetical order?"

"No, you dolt, it's because I'm the dashing one. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Boys." This time Hermione had said with a bit of steely warning in her tone.

"Of course we're not upset!" Fred exclaimed with an exaggerated sigh of exasperation. "Why on earth would we be upset? It's just a baby, Hermione. The devil's baby, to be certain, but otherwise, just an infant."

"It won't be a spanking good child, but we'll do our best to influence it," was George's input, leaving Hermione under the apprehension that he was perfectly serious with the promise.

"Besides, with a new baby on the way, you're bound to gain some weight, and match your picture on the chocolate frog card," Fred added, under the silly idea that this would comfort Hermione. When the young woman frowned, he was compelled to say, "And a new child will be fun. Mum, I expect, will tell you what's what with it."

"Yes," George agreed, "and everybody knows that with the right upbringing, even the most prattish babies can turn out all right. Though, come to think of it, Percy seems to be an exception that rule."

"Oh yeah," Fred said, as if suddenly remembering the existence of his older brother. "Weird, isn't it? How we're so wonderful and that one's such an arse?"

Hermione, having nothing to say on the matter, had stood to change for bed when Fred suddenly laid his hands on her waist and stopped her.

"Wait a second," he requested suddenly and, without ceremony, lifted her shirt to peek at her belly. Then, before she could protest, he poked at her stomach with child like curiosity. "Hullo!" Fred called, apparently thinking her a navel to be a communication tunnel. "Hullo, there, little Slytherin! It's Uncle Fred!"

"Fred, really," Harry began to protest when George stood up and pushed him aside.

"You stupid arse!" George scolded and Hermione began to feel some relief that at least one of them had the common sense of snail. Then that relief died immediately when George began talking to the unborn child as well.

"Hullo! Wouldn't want to hear his ugly voice, now, would you?" George said amiably to Hermione's tummy, obviously completely unaware just how similar his voice was to his twin's. "And, before he lies to you, I'm Uncle George, and I'm the dashing one."

Hermione was wondering how to put the moronic activities to an end when her stomach did it for her. As she had little opportunity to stop for a bite, her tummy now rumbled with displeasure.

"Bloody hell, George, it's just growled at us!"

"Oh, it's Malfoy's baby all right, being so friendly and everything to Weasleys."

Then there were two simultaneous "Oof's," for Hermione had knocked both twins over and marched to the kitchen, where Harry had already prepared a meal for her.

"I suppose you've been flying all over the place, without thinking of eating?" Harry asked with a distinctly displeased air. Hermione felt ridiculously like a scolded student, and only made a small noise that neither meant yes nor no.

Fred and George recovered from their harsh landing on the hardwood floor and joined Harry and Hermione at the table. Later, after Harry had forcibly sent Fred and George home, he tucked Hermione into bed with the same well meaning coercion.

Oh, it was tiring day for Hermione Granger. Still, she was forced to admit, things were not too bad, if one was to reflect on it from the right perspective. So she was pregnant with the devious Draco Malfoy's baby—it was still a baby and, like George pointed out, could be molded and raised into the most wonderful wizard or witch. And everybody she had told of the pregnancy was reasonably pleased with it. True, it "everybody" included only four people, but, as she was tired and somewhat cantankerous, Hermione wished to view it was a positive thing.

xoxox

Harry's body hurt when he awoke, and it was no mystery why. After all, he had wrestled with—no, no, that didn't feel like the right term. He had been beaten into a near bloody pulp by the two, incorrigible Weasleys. And, he had exerted a tremendous amount of force to send those two red haired idiots home, so that sleep would be possible without any further problems.

Only to find, the very next morning that the problems—two identical ones, to be exact–were already in the kitchen waiting for breakfast. Hermione had already awakened due to Fred and George's disregard for the meaning of "inside voices," and Harry, grumpily, was forced to cook breakfast.

After Fred's ridiculous observation Harry's wonderful cooking skills—with an embarrassing wink—George spoke with shocking seriousness.

"Hermione. I think it's best that you lived with us."

Hermione's fork paused in mid air. "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, not us, exactly, as we'll be moving out soon. The Burrow, I meant."

"Yes," Fred agreed, no trace of the usual joviality on his face. "Yes, I think it's a rather good idea."

"For I can't think of anybody who knows pregnancy better than mum," George said proudly.

"And besides, there'll be more people to help at the Burrow."

"But...but...I can't leave Harry."

"Oh yes. What would he do without you?" George studied Harry for a moment before snapping his fingers. "Oh, I guess Harry'll have to come with us too."

"I don't know," Fred said uneasily, eyes shifting from Harry to Hermione. "Ginny wouldn't be too pleased about that, now, would she?"

"Is she very upset?" Harry asked nervously.

George waved a hand as if waving away their worries. "Oh, don't worry about Ginny. Most of her anger blew up right after you left, and Percy bore the brunt of it."

"Good to hear," Harry murmured miserably, poking at his food.

"But, will they agree with what Harry has planned?"

"Planned?" Fred echoed.

"Oh yes," George remembered after swallowing. "I meant to tell you. Harry here says he's going to bring Ron back. We'll have to put his spoon back on the clock, you know."

But Fred was not thinking about Ron's fallen spoon. Indeed, the red haired twin had suddenly dropped his own, letting the utensil fall with a loud clang on the floor. George, lightly chiding his brother on cleanliness and table manners, bent down to retrieve it until he observed Fred's hard expression.

"No."

Hermione blinked and shook her head. Really, only four months along, and this pregnancy was affecting her hearing. She had thought, mistakenly of course, that Fred refused the possible return of his only younger brother.

"Well then fine," George snorted, perfectly oblivious to the exchange of belligerent stares between Fred and Harry. "Don't use your spoon. See if I care."

"No?" Harry questioned rather tightly. His thin body seemed incredibly tense, more so than the first night he had arrived at her flat. George and Hermione watched with silent fascination as Harry, showing a lack of self control they had all believed he had outgrown, caused the china on the table to shake in correlation to his growing anger.

"No," Fred repeated. "You can't do that, Harry. I won't allow it."

"You won't allow it," Harry barked with a short, unpleasant laugh, rising from his chair to lean forward on the table. "What do you mean? What the hell could you possibly mean?"

"I mean," Fred, matching his dangerous tone, "that you can't simply do that. Not after what we've been through. I know you miss him, Harry. We all bloody miss him. But you can't just simply bring him back for a happy ending."

"I'm not doing it for a fucking happy ending!"

The trembling plates clinked loudly against the cups, and George sent an imploring glance to Hermione. Who was at a complete and utter loss as to how to handle the situation.

"I'm doing it because Ron isn't where he's supposed to be!" Harry continued passionately. "He could be suffering!"

"Ron wouldn't go to hell, Harry—"

"No! He's not in hell! He's not in heaven either! He's in nowhere, and it's my fault!"

"Harry," Hermione began softly and was ignored.

"Do you know?" Fred demanded, standing so quickly his chair toppled over. "Do you know how long mum cried? Were you there, Harry Potter? Did you have to ignore the muffled sobs at night? Did you have to correct Ginny when she set one too many plates at the table? Did you have to pretend not to see dad's tears? Did you?"

"I'm going to put a stop to all that—"

"They have stopped! I was so fucking happy they stopped! Every fucking night it was like a nightmare that never ended! And here you are, saying you going to reopen every one's wounds?"

"I don't need your approval, Fred Weasley," Harry stated vehemently. "You may not give a damn that Ron is in a place he should not be—"

"Really," Fred interrupted viciously, his expression so ferocious Hermione was beginning to grow frightened. Nobody had ever seen either of the twins apply themselves, but that did not mean Fred would not tap into his obvious skill when provoked.

And Fred, at the suggestion of his indifference for Ron's soul, was very near provoked.

"Really, Harry. You claim that Ron needs rescuing, do you? Another mission for famous Harry Potter?"

"Fred," George protested, moving to stand between the two, who were slowly but surely moving closer.

Fred ignored his twin, leaning to his left to meet Harry's gaze. "And where did you hear this information? Hmm? A little birdie up and told you that Ron, who was one of the first sacrifices in _your war_, has been in need of Harry Potter's heroism for quite a while now?"

Hermione felt a lump grow in her throat, and pushed back from the table with vision blurred by tears.

"I don't understand!" Harry exploded. He was livid, he was beyond incensed, at Fred's choice of words; his eyes lit anew with the mention of "his war."

He _hadn't_ asked for it. He hadn't asked for a whole bloody period devoted solely to defeating his enemy. And he hadn't asked Ron to die, either. "I don't understand! Why wouldn't you want Ron back? Tell me! Tell me why having Ron back would be so terrible!"

"Because his death is part of the past!" Fred answered thunderously. "Because, no matter how much power you have, you _should not _and may not change the past! Because we have all lived and changed and adjusted...think of how much it would hurt, Harry. For him. To see us, looking at him not as our old Ron, but an amazing wonder that Harry's conjured. Let him rest in peace, Harry."

"You stupid fuck," Harry ground out, refusing to accept Fred's softening tone. "Do you honestly think I'd bring Ron back because I miss him? Because I need him around? I told you before. He's not where he's supposed to be!"

"You have invented," Fred now roared with flashing eyes, "a _lie_! A lie to comfort yourself when you accomplish whatever you've planned, and Ron is bewildered and lost in this world that's moved on without him! A lie to comfort yourself when our mother looks at him with horror instead of love! A lie to comfort yourself when the Ministry holds him, imprisons him, for questioning—because it's just too suspicious, damn it, it's just too bleedin' suspicious for him to up and resurrect himself! He'll wish he stayed dead, damn it, because this new world isn't the same place he left! You can't just—"

"It won't be like that!"

The desperate words were not from Harry, surprisingly. It was George. It was George who stood directly before his brother, face set with grim determination.

"They wouldn't do that to him," George said now, in a quieter voice. His eyebrows knit together, and his eyes focused on nothing in particular. "Not after how stupid they felt after doing that to us. I mean, Dad wouldn't allow it. He's much farther up now. They wouldn't do that to Ron."

Hermione stared with growing realisation at the angered twin. She had wondered, hadn't she? She had wondered with simple, innocent curiosity, how terrible it was for Fred and George. But she would have never have dreamed of anything terrible occurring _after_ their return. She would have never have imagined that their welcome would have included anything besides open arms. Obviously, the burning suspicion still haunted Fred, more so than his brother.

Fred tightened his lips to a displeased line as George continued.

"Besides," he said, gaining some spirit, though it was unclear whether his excitement was genuine or for Fred's benefit. "Wouldn't it be great? Wouldn't it be great, to have Ron again?"

Oh bloody hell. Fred, suddenly exhausted, slowly sank into George's empty chair.

Of course it would be great. It would be better than great. To have a little brother to tease again, to boss around again, to play tricks on again... Fred would have given his store, his broom, his everything to have Ron back again. The same could be said for George, and anybody else in the family for that matter. But it was just too much for hope for, really, after the months of searching. Molly Weasley had been so hopeful it hurt to look at her, after she had heard that they could not find his body. And Fred, more than anything of the whole damn war, hated to see that hope die so miserably.

And Ginny. Poor Ginny! One could assume, rather cold heartedly, that that little girl had enough older brothers as it was. But not one, a smarter observer would know, like Ronald Weasley. Ronald Weasley was not too busy with office work, or dragons, or Quidditch, or prank playing, or anything else...to be her older brother. Ginny had lost that one brother who was, while older, what she was. The youngest, the least experienced, and, at times, the most ignored. Ginny had lost that brother who she sought to be. The most understanding, the most protective, and, at times, the most passionate. It was only a few months ago, really, that she had remembered to stop setting Ron's place at the table. And she had stopped carefully keeping Ron's places in the books that she borrowed from his empty room, but he had never bothered to finish.

Perhaps strangest of all was how Percy reacted. He was very strange for a few days, going into Ron's room, very quick and tight lipped, as if ready to give a scolding to a boy who was no longer there. And, after that, Ginny had told Fred and George, Percy would take to studying the clock, which showed the twins in Mortal Peril.

_It must be broken_, Percy would argue with their father, and Bill, and Charlie. For, if Ron's spoon had fallen off—which, Percy would argue endlessly, was unheard of—then, there was something wrong with magical contraption. Perhaps it was wrong; perhaps the twins were not in mortal peril, and perhaps Ron was out there somewhere. Later, Fred sometimes spied his elder brother stopping short in Ron's tiny room, and then visibly shaking himself, filling his time by straightening Ron's books, and shuffling the comic books into neat little piles. As if Ron would return, or some other hopeful nonsense like that.

It had all hurt so much, Fred remembered. It hurt to see, or to not see, really, dad at the office, eliminating as much paper work as possible, to permit search warrants for his youngest son. It hurt to know that Charlie was out, hours on end, with his dragons, ready to burn to a crisp anything that resembled a threat to the hopeful missions. Bill had received stern warnings at the bank, Fred remembered, as he would tend to spend his time with his father, helping push papers, instead of working. The return of the twins at the end of the Dark Year had revived some of the waning hope, and sent a new optimism throughout the Weasleys. Perhaps, they would say to each other and in their hearts, perhaps Ron wasn't dead.

Cramped as the Burrow was, nobody moved into Ron's room. During the war and a few months afterwards, the door and window would remain open, waiting, wishing for the occupant to return. Then, one morning, Fred saw an unusual darkness in the hall way, and realised that his father had quietly shut it in the night. It was too cold, Mr. Weasley later explained in a low murmur, to have the door open after sunset. And Fred had only nodded, not mentioning the fact that it was high summer.

All that nonsense had stopped. All the praying, the searching, the denial...it had all ended in a painful crash, one by one, each family member realising in their own way that Ronald Weasley would not come back. And he refused to be tricked again into believing something else.

A sob, so young and helpless that he irrationally thought it was Ginny, ripped Fred from his ruminations. The three tense males turned, startled, and watched as Hermione failed to restrain another sob.

The young witch brought her hands to her face, her palms filling with hot, unstoppable tears.

"I hadn't thought of it," she told Harry brokenly, her brown eyes fixed on him with despair. "I hadn't thought of it at all."

"What?" George demanded, panicked, and digging in his pocket for a handkerchief. He understood that this was a highly charged moment, and it was natural for someone to break down. But this was cool and collected Hermione. Something terrible must have crossed her mind for her to sob so heart wrenchingly. "What?"

"You're to bring him back the way he's supposed to be," Hermione wept, unable to stop herself. "But what if he comes back dead?"

She couldn't bring herself to imagine Mrs. Weasley's, or Ginny's, or—oh god, George's face when they learned that yes, Ronald Weasley had been safely resurrected from the horrible in between place. But, no, he was no longer alive. She couldn't stomach the thought.

The words, said in a hoarse, quiet voice, was enough to send George sinking unsteadily into Harry's seat.

"What?" George asked, his voice too loud and a bit laughing, hoping strongly that he had misheard. "Dead? What does she mean, Harry?"

Harry looked at Hermione without pity and without belligerence. For the first time, Harry settled those cold emerald eyes on Hermione without a hint of affection.

"A small possibility," he said colourlessly.

Before the twins could react to his provocative statement, Harry stepped back quickly, as if afraid to present these people, his friends, his vulnerable back.

"It's obvious none of you are in the best of moods to discuss this," he said curtly as he reached the door. "I'll be back later."

There was little else to do, after he left. The remaining three had had too much on their minds to clear the table, or right the chairs. George, to his credit, found and handed Hermione his handkerchief.

She had clutched it tightly as she went to bed that night, remembering the only thing that had, and would always, comfort her.

"_Ama me fideliter, Fidem meam noto, Decorde totaliter, Et ex mente tota, Sum presentialiter, Absens in remota."_

"_I see." A pause. "Oh, yes, I see."_

"_You don't understand, do you?"_

"_Not in the slightest. But I suppose you're going to tell me. I guess you're good for something."_

"_Yes. My sole purpose in life is to translate the simplest of Latin phrases for the big eared boy who has some egg on his chin."_

"_I do not have big ears!" A pause. "Do I?"_

xoxox

**If Immortality unveil**

**A third event to me**

**Emily Dickinson**


	14. The Lonely Wednesday

**Small chapter-let. **

**Right, so I'm really depressed now. Yankees lost, and soon, hell will be freezing over. Bundle up guys. Oh, and if some jackass dares to write or review something about hooray for Red Sox, I will refrain from posting. Not because I believe in holding a story hostage, but because I would be so further depressed I would not be motivated to post. So there. I'm gonna return to my mourning now...**

**Oh, and BEEF, since I'm too tired to change update my bio:**

**I hate Mary Sues. Death to all Mary Sues. Oh, anybody who write Mary Sues, shame on you; you give fanfic a bad name.**

**(Motivated by very silly fics in both HP and LoTR sections).**

**loverlydaisy520:** Heylo!

Wow, reading the whole thing in one go? You're not stuck in your seat, by any chance, are you? And therefore unable to do anything but find interesting things to read? If so, I'm glad to have filled your stuck-at-my-computer-desk agony.

You know what? I simply don't understand how anybody could NOT be a Ron/Hermione fan. It's just so perfect! But, obviously, I've made it very difficult for my favorite pair, haven't I? Very hypocritical of me, I think... Oh and, "horribly lovable" is a very good description of Draco... "pasty bastard" fits him very well, too, but I think I've already used that...

Yes, I was thinking of a certain theory when reading a Labyrinth fanfic, and now, since you have so graciously inserted some of your philosophy, I will burden you with mine! Yes, I know you're dancing with joy (or you would be, if your butt wasn't stuck to a chair, as I have theorized) but try to contain yourself long enough to read it:

He loves her, correct? He loves her for who she is, and, essentially, she has become the person he loves because of the effects and influences of her past. If he were to take away her past, then she changes. She becomes less like herself and more like somebody of his own molding. Essentially, it's my take on Pygmalion (I love both myth and the play). A person may not be wholly satisfied by his loved one, but he would be damnably miserable if she were to suddenly conform to his idea of perfection. Draco realized this, of course, when he found that he took away too much or too little to keep his happiness–because to take anything, no matter how little, from Hermione's mind would be tainting her, changing her from the original self, whom he loved to begin with...

Am I rambling now? Yeah, I think I am. Must stop. Must get hypnotherapy or something like that...

Oh, and yes, I don't like laying things out in the beginning. I enjoy, more than anything, to start a story with an uber confusing problem, and then start unraveling the problem chapter by chapter...so, believe me, you're not the first reviewer I've ever had who says the beginning is confusing!

**GIRL W/PNK CONVERSE**: Now, maybe I am incurably dense when it comes to reading your reviews, but I simply did not fully understand that last one. Do you mean, "What a depressing chapter!" or "Damn, I'm depressed she hasn't updated yet!" ? Because, I fully understand both possibilities!

**Delovely**: OF COURSE! THAT was the most important thing of the entire chapter! I highly doubt ABC or Abrams would see it, but still, it's the thought that counts. Hooray for Lost! Oh, and, when you are referring to the twins, I suppose you mean Fred and George, and not Arwen's brothers?

If you do not know what I am talking about, and only know our favorite hobbit from the movie and not from the books, then just ignore me, for I am a dork.

Dastardly Snail: Um...I believe that The Talk would have been best given by...Bill or Charlie. Yeah, that would have been very educational. And the thought of the Dumble giving the Talk...stop it! Nightmares! AAAGH!

Um...yeah...everybody knows that snails are very sensible! I pity the fool who thinks snails are insensible! And I pity the fool who says "I pity the fool!"

**Crystallized Snow**: Do you know, I think (and I'm pretty sure this is very conceited of me) that I will never get tired of hearing, saying, or reading the phrase "bloody brilliant."

Any way, I'm glad you were obviously in a good mood when you wrote your review, and on a side note, what the hell are you sniffing and can I have some?

Just kidding, just kidding, you go on with your uber capitalizing and oxymoroning...I'm sure millions of other people are just as excited when it comes to literary devices...

NO! Hermione's pregnant? How the hell did that happen? Wait, on second thought, don't give me the Talk, it's best for both of us to avoid that awkward conversation...

Any way, your review made me laugh, so thanks for that!

**smaloukis**: Well, I've never heard that before! Still, it would be a nice excuse to use...

My chapters are so wonderful, you should be grateful I post them for your unworthy eyes at all! MWUHAHAHAHA!

Gawd, that'd be awful of me. Any way, so happy to hear that there is another Ron/Herm lover amongst my reviewers...I believe that makes 1 or 2...encouraging statistics, huh?

And yes, Ron's return is sitting right there on the horizon...it's just that...the horizon is so far away...it's almost depressing! But, that, I guess takes patience, and aren't we lucky you have so much of it:0)

**Otakuannie**: Hey Annie,

Yeah, he is perty, ain't he? Now, if only he wasn't so darn asshole-ish, he'd be perfect...

I can't imagine Hermione dating both Weasleys. I mean, she's clever, but I don't think she's clever enough to figure out who is who when one of them has done something bad. Can you imagine?

"No Hermione, you've already kissed him goodnight, it's my turn!"

Heehee...I crack myself up...um, but probably not you, so I'll stop with the hypothetical situations now...

Ah but you forget one of Blaise's pluses...Italian. Lovely exotic-ness going for him there.

As for the quote, I totally understand it, and I would find it feasible if it love could exist without some reason...but, sadly, it cannot (or, at least, in Reasonable Hermione's case).

Yes, he is a nerd, but isn't he the dreamiest nerd ever? And, I believe what must be added to the "man's role"...

And put women in horribly, angsty, emotionally shattering situations. But only when we're motivated.

Yeah, THAT sums up a man's role, rotten bastards...grr...

Any way, enough of my prattling, onto the story!

**Oli**: Heya!

I know. English Major. I foresee a long, ink-stained, and hungry life ahead of me.

And hooray for angsty confrontations! They make the world go round! Yes, I do dislike how, in some stories, when they kill off Ron, they don't seem to show everybody's reaction to it (I say that because I don't believe "Hermione seeking comfort in Malfoy" as a real reaction). The only problems I've had was how to express Bill and Charlie's grief, because, obviously, we don't know much about them.

Aw, who DOESN'T love the Weasleys! I wish I was a Weasley. But no...I have to go and be an "E"... damn.

I'm pretty sure you didn't make up "whinge" either, because I remember reading it in a Harry Potter book (is it scarily obsessive of me to remember single words from those massive novels?)

Hey now, as much as I like to hear this is may be your favorite, I am indignant on behalf of my other story's sake! (I say singular "story" because, in my denial-filled mind, "Frozen Fire" never happened) Oh well, I guess I can't blame you, because V.V. was so very...happy as unicorns and rainbows? Okay, stop rolling your eyes now...

**Sissiro**: "...then I'll allow it, for pregnant women, it is well known, are horny as hell. Also, I am irresistible to all living things."

Is it vain of me to quote myself? Probably. Who cares? Okay, anybody who has just raised their hand needs to be shot, because only my opinion matters...that's not vain either, right:0)

Any way, that line is not the product of Harry's wit! Hell no! They're both true, aren't they? Pregnant woman do experience a surge of unusual hormonal imbalance, and Harry is ever so dreamy? Or am I being a weirdo and thinking crazy thoughts again?

Oh, I wish I could be a normal human being and say I'm sorry for making you cry...but I'm cruel, apparently, because reading about your reaction made me so happy! The very best art expressions draw forth some sort of emotion, so I'm glad I did. On a side note, I don't know if it's vain to call my fanfiction an "art expression" but I couldn't think of any other word for it. On a side note to the side of that last side note, if that was true, then Batman and Robin must be one hell of an artistic endeavor, because I bawled when I found out Alfred was dying...  
Now, if you were any other reviewer, I would literarily skewer you for writing "Bring me a Draco filled update soon!" But, because I like you, I'll refrain. Surely you know by now how those commands annoy me.

Well, I'll stop now, because it's a terribly long response and I don't want you to fall asleep before you read the actual chapter!

**patagonia**: Yeah, I can't believe a lot of things either. Like, clearly, those Keebler elves did not make all those cookies in that single tree. Obviously, they must have a whole orchard of cookie-making trees somewhere. Probably Vermont.

I also cannot believe that those people and that one, weird, long haired man try to pass off margarine as great tasting butter. I mean, I've tasted that stuff thank you very much, and I will tell you this right now...You're damn right that's not butter!

And yeah, now that I think about it, it IS sort of unbelievable that I put Happy Twin moment and Sad Twin moment in the same chapter. You'd figure I'd be hanged for not having a decent and lengthy transition in between. But, somehow, I did it successfully, so I'll just thank my lucky stars and never try that again...I think...

Any way, thanks for the great stuff you wrote, and I'll let you get back to reading now!

**sugar n spice 522**: aw...yeah, I got kinda teary eyed myself when I read over it. If it were possible, I would have added a melancholic violin solo, just to make it an official tear jerker. You always know things are about to get horrible when you're watching a movie once you hear that violin solo...

Actually, after I wrote that oh-so-catchy "Can't have babies without sex" bit, I realized that you CAN have babies without sex. Giant pandas do it all the time (well, not IT exactly, but that whole baby-making without the fun part) so I guess I lied. But still, I think I'd appreciate a poster with that catchphrase on it.

Well, I don't know whether it would have turned out good if Draco did a good thing, because

1) That one good thing could not make up for all the horrible things he's done.

B) Then Ron would be back, and then he'd have even more trouble keeping Hermione.

But still, I don't know, I haven't gotten to the ending yet. I guess we're both in that Wondering Boat.

**Athena Linborn**: Stop complimenting me! I mean, obviously, I can't do anything about it...except kill you...JUST KIDDING! Nobody is killing each other...yet...JUST KIDDING AGAIN!

Right, so, if I haven't scared you off with my rather violent sense of humor, I'll continue. Any way, thanks for all the nice compliments. Maybe because I am schizo or maybe because I'm the worst sort of emotional woman...but I do like to write polar opposite emotions in limited time spaces. I love it when, in movies, the director emphasizes the tragedy of a situation by adding a bright color or happy bystanders in the background...it makes things so wonderfully ironic, or, in this case, nostalgic. If I were in Hermione's situation at the end of the chapter, I would have been mightily wishing for the silliness of the day before. Sigh...

Any way, I believe I've already told you (and anybody who listened...whether they wanted to or not, come to think of it) that I hate to see the twins portrayed as two bodies, one mind. It's inconceivable. I had friends who were twins, and you never saw two sisters who disagreed so much! So, for realism's sake, I decided not to have Fred agreeing with George on every single matter.

And, to answer your last we are female, and males are very much unavoidable on this planet...I believe we both know how ignorant any bloke can get. And it's sad to see them prove my point every single day... :0)

The Painted Past

Chapter 14

**If worry were an effective weight-loss program,**

xoxox

It was time, Hermione decided as she ate breakfast alone, for a lunch party.

She hadn't ever hosted a lunch party, but remembered her mother's love of them. Her mother had been a lovely, social creature, having dinner parties, and lunches, and brunches, and sometimes—Hermione remembered with a shudder—karaoke get-togethers.

And her father, an adorable and quiet man, had been reasonably tolerant of them. Though he did, she recalled, liked to leave the house with Hermione during the musical disasters. And, even as a young child, Hermione had been tremendously grateful for that.

She would have to invite the Weasleys, of course. And Neville. Oh, and Seamus, since Neville seemed to need his friend there, to prevent clumsy faux pas. And...oh yes, and Dumbledore. Dumbledore, Hagrid, Mrs. Hagrid, and McGonagall ...

"Does Ginny have a boyfriend?" she asked aloud. Her words had met only an empty flat, and, judging by its silence, it did not know either.

She was very glad she had no visitors. Fred and George were quarreling, it seemed. For when one happened to stop by when the other already present, the air grew very thick indeed. And, in those tense instances, when Harry made the unfortunate decision to visit as well, Hermione very nearly choked on the rising animosity. She had, in the gentlest terms she could manage, explained to the twins Ron's situation; not bothering to add that she, too, had had dreams of Ron. Hermione wanted them to make up their own minds about the spell. They had taken the news of Ron's possible return as a corpse in stride, and left with solemn faces.

So they made, either with an awkward, secret conversation or by silent understanding, a schedule of some sorts, which stated that Harry stopped by either Monday or Tuesday, George on Thursday or Friday, and Fred on Saturday or Sunday. Mysterious Harry, of course, came at night to sleep, but never really said what he did when he was out. Wednesdays, such as this, were very peaceful.

She rose after finishing her third—fourth?—piece of French toast. But sometimes, on lonely Wednesdays, she needed somebody to talk to. She needed somebody to assure her that, no, she wasn't showing yet, and that on her belly was just a bit of stress fat.

And, Hermione reflected after the shower and she towel dried her hair, she had had a lot of stress lately. It was not the usual—evil, good, and all the silliness in between—but legal matters. It had been fairly difficult to explain why to her parents' solicitor why she hadn't immediately seen to the matters of wills and estates and so forth. She wanted to tell the truth but that, naturally, was impossible. Mr. Nitterwick hadn't been the gentlest creature, either, giving her censuring looks instead of sympathetic gazes. Really. She didn't know why her parents had chosen such an awful man to be the interpreter of their last will and testament. It didn't really help that, upon the first meeting, Hermione was inexplicably reminded of Harry's playful butchering of the name earlier that morning, causing her to say accidentally, with much embarrassment, "Mr. Nutterwank."

And then, after that trying affair, there were those awful demons at Gringotts. Really, was it so bizarre to have that much Muggle Money converted and then deposited?

Well, yes, considering the large amount. But still. No excuse for rudeness, especially when at such a vulnerable size, at which bigger, pregnant witches could sit on you and render you incapable of further impoliteness.

Crookshanks meowed and Hermione suddenly remembered to feed her adorable cat. Poor thing. He had no idea what was going on, but still loved her loyally, despite her so called mood swings—which she thought hadn't really been a problem yet, despite Fred's, and George's, and Harry's contradictions.

Was it time for lunch yet? She wondered after setting down Crookshanks bowl. The ugly, fat cat purred loudly, and Hermione startled herself with her silliness. Of course it wasn't time! They had just finished breakfast, after all.

Harry, despite his recent awkwardness, had been kind enough to give her a new cell phone. Or rather, as he was not a saint, his old used one, before he had the Ginny-reminder phone. This mobile phone, which, according to a sheepish Harry, was a rather ancient model, was a bit longer than the length of her hand, and always had to have the antennae pulled out, something Hermione perpetually failed to remember. This ingenuity of muggle electronics had become the bearer of bad news to some English universities, as Hermione, with a broken heart, had to inform them of canceled interviews.

She decided not to tell them, "I can't attend uni because I've been knocked up by a bastard," as that, in some eyes, was not the best course of action for potential students. Hermione Granger cited "family troubles" as her cause of delay, and she had been given a few censures, and a few wishes of good lucks.

It was said cell phone who became the enemy of Crookshanks. Why, it seemed that the feline hated it more than a certain, disguised rat from a few years prior. After some reflection, Hermione couldn't really blame him. After all, Hermione held the cell phone quite a bit closer than she did Crookshanks, and she also seemed to kiss it more often than the cat. And said cat had no way of knowing that the proximity and talking into the mouth was very necessary, and thus held an immovable grudge to the portable.

Hermione had set the mobile next to her on the table, as she wrote a list of potential guests. She had made a muggle friend, with some delight that disturbed Poppy.

Poppy was, with admirable modesty, a milkman. Or, as Hermione liked to put it, milk woman. The complex was resident to quite a few aged couples, who liked to receive their milk from a nice, cheerful deliverer, instead of walking to the shop. And Hermione, upon learning this from Harry–who, bored to tears sometimes, had taken to noting every single detail of their environment–immediately desired to become a customer.

It was for sweet, short, and sometimes grumpy Poppy that Hermione had the cell phone. Poppy, being muggle—which Hermione liked to add with some relish—could not possibly receive an owl, or talk through a fire place with her arse in the air. Poppy, being muggle, only had basic electronics to help her communicate with other muggles, and so, Hermione—with an eagerness that also confused Poppy—gladly asked for her mobile number.

And it was great fun, having a muggle friend, who knew what television shows Hermione watched, and complained with Hermione about the normal muggle tasks of idiot drivers and inconsiderate pedestrians. Harry, of course, knew of these things, but was male, and didn't like to dissect every aspect of his life with great criticism. Poppy the Muggle—she wouldn't, with some mysterious embarrassment, give Hermione her last name, and the witch, too happy to find a normal friend, did not push for an explanation—was both female and critical, and had just as much to complain about as Hermione.

Poppy would have to be invited, definitely. Hermione had told her all about Fred, and George, and Harry, and Poppy, that wonderful muggle, sympathized. And, who knew? Maybe Poppy would be surly enough to those trouble makers to scare them into good behavior.

Yes. Poppy, the Weasleys, Harry, Seamus, Neville, the professors...yes that was definitely enough.

Now, to start inviting—

Crookshanks let out a vicious hiss when the mobile began to ring its default shrills, and darted from the tiny kitchen. Hermione frowned, wondering if her cat needed hypnotherapy, and answered.

"Hello?"

"May I speak to Hermione Granger?" asked a familiar male voice. Hermione frowned. She had expected Harry or Poppy, as none of the university representatives would not be calling back again. Perhaps a telemarketer...?

"Speaking."

"Ah," continued the deep voice. "So sorry to call like this, but Harry gave me the number."

"It's all right," Hermione assured, feeling strangely like a student again. The man was older, that much was certain. And he knew Harry, some how. Perhaps another, great and powerful wizard? He and Harry probably met at the Great and Powerful Wizards club meeting. Perhaps that was why she felt as if she should have been on her best behaviour.

"...I'm sorry, but some sort of response would be encouraging at this point." Hermione realised that she had been focusing her attention else where, and apologised immediately, only too thankful she did not have to worry about losing house points any more.

"Do you know who this is, Miss Granger?" the man asked suddenly, as if the thought just occurred to him.

"Ah...um...yes?"

"Was that an answer or a question?" the man asked in an amused tone.

"No?" Hermione tried again.

"Hermione," he laughed. "It's Remus Lupin."

_Oh!_ Well, that certainly explained a great deal.

"You sound different."

"I've a cold."

"At the end of August?"

"Yes, well, skulking around in drafty castles will do that to you."

"What drafty castle?"

"The best, naturally. I've been arranging my things at Hogwarts, if you must be so nosy," he teased gently.

"But, professor, you don't have things—_OH MY GOD_!"

"Ow," Remus whined lightly.

"You're a professor again!"

"Lower volume, please?"

"Oh professor," she sighed ecstatically. "I'm so pleased! It's not fair, really, that we you had for only one year...oh! It's such good news!"

"Yes, thank you," Professor Lupin continued in a milder tone. "But I did not call to boast. I was wondering if you would be against a visit. I would have used better means of communication, but I was told you had no fireplace."

"Uh...right."

"Pardon me for saying so, but you don't sound too thrilled at the thought of me coming over. I assure you I've washed my hands and I'll wipe my feet."

"No, I mean, it's just strange...you're very normal."

"Hmm...thank you?"

"Was that a response or question?"

"Whatever pleases you," Lupin answered genially.

"I meant that you're the first person who does things correctly. You called, chatted, and then politely asked if you could come over. Most people in my life just burst through the door, you know."

"Terrible manners," he agreed, "They should be hung by the thumbs."

"Harry's one of them."

"Him especially then. Do I have your consent?"

"Of course you do, honestly," Hermione said with an impatient sigh. "You're a professor," she added, in a tone that suggested that such stature should guarantee him access to any where in the world. With a chuckle, Lupin thanked her and ended the call.

After which, Hermione ran around the flat in a manner of which Harry would most assuredly disapprove. There was a mess to clean up; mostly Harry's, that wretched flatmate that he was. There was tea to prepare, and Crookshanks to find, and her clothes to change...

And then, much later than an exhausted Hermione would have expected, a certain visitor knocked on her door.

"Did you apparate?" she asked curiously, as he stepped over the threshold. Her eyes casually scanned the taller, older man, and were pleased with the view. She had not seen him in ages, and, though he looked very much the same, he looked very different as well. The prematurely silver strands of hair were still present, naturally, but he had not gained any more signs of aging. If anything, her former educator appeared enviably content.

"Yes."

"Then why did you apparate just outside my flat, instead of in it?"

"Because you hadn't invited me in," Remus Lupin stated as if it were obvious. Hermione sighed again as they settled in the sitting area, tea ready on the low table.

"You really should hold a class for young men, professor," she told him as she poured, "on how to be a gentleman."

Remus did not know how to respond to that, and looked pleased at any rate. "I'll get down to business," he said after an inane discussion on the weather. Her mother, Hermione remembered, always liked to start conversations with weather and teeth; so, in the present situation, she chose the subject of which Remus knew more.

"We need a new potions professor. Dumbledore says you're the most suitable for the job, and frankly, nobody's disagreed. Except for Filch, but I don't think he's quite sound." It was a kind way of putting it.

"Now, we know, after your tremendous ordeal, and then that trouble with Mr. Malfoy, it's a bit much to ask. Nevertheless, we're hoping you'll consider it."

"Isn't it a bit irresponsible of Dumbledore to still be searching for one this late into the summer? Who's been teaching it for the summer programs?"

"Well, that's just it. You see, Professor Triffet had been imported from Beauxbatons, as that academy decided not to hold summer programs. We had thought that, after the season with us, and friendly persuasion from Dumbledore, she might have stayed. But, apparently, Triffet misses her home, and has chosen to return."

He had spoken kindly enough, but Hermione instantly saw that Remus did not think Beauxbatons possessed any qualities that would win a professor's loyalty–at least, in comparison to Hogwarts.

"So," he continued after a disgusted sigh, "her badly calculated decision shall be our gain, if you decide to return as professor."

"But..."

But what of her dreams as an auror? A part of her mind asked. Dead, she answered. She had known for some time that she had had enough violence against evil. The war had seen to that.

"You can study to become a medi witch in between classes," Professor Lupin said persuasively.

"But...I haven't even attended uni..."

Remus sat back, evidently perplexed. "Yes?"

"Isn't it a bit of a requirement?"

"Well...no," Remus said bluntly, not at all troubled. "Why should it be?"

"Because students won't respect a professor who hasn't earned a university education."

"Did you respect me?"

"Naturally, but really, this is hardly the time for flattery—oh. I was a bit slow there, wasn't I?"

"Just a bit."

"Why, no offense meant, professor, but why oh why didn't you go?"

"Well..." Remus took a sip of his tea and scratched his head. "I really didn't see the need, and my condition would have made it difficult as well...but enough of me. _You_ know more than the entire Beauxbatons staff combined...joking, joking, I don't really detest them...that much." Hermione frowned. "But, in all seriousness, Hermione, I know it's the traditional step after school—"

"But I don't want to attend for convention's sake, professor," she argued. "I haven't learned enough. I want to learn more."

"An admirable conviction, Miss Granger. But, college or no, you'll never know enough, not if you live as long as Dumbledore. Who by the way, just discovered the other day the joys of nutella." He dug something out of his pocket. "You left this in his office, by the way," he grinned, handing her a half full jar of aforementioned spread. Hermione frowned, remembering the quibble she and Harry had about her supposedly forgetting to buy him some.

"Any way," Remus continued, "more to the point. Why not learn while teaching?"

"_Why_, you mean. Professor, I'm sorry to contradict, but it would be a bit of a full plate with teaching others and meanwhile trying to learn myself."

"I thought you might say something like that. So I've prepared to fight dirty." Remus shifted and pulled out a folded bit of paper. "This, my dear, is a list of all the expenses you've cost my good friend Dumbledore over the past month. Now, while you're heartless enough to drain him dry until you're rich as a sheikh-ess, I won't stand for it. There."

His friendship with Sirius Black, Hermione decided, had had its definite negative influences.

"He's kept tabs on expenses?" she squeaked, mortified beyond mortification.

Remus shook his head casually. "Of course not. I have, because I care."

"I...er...house elves!"

"My, that was random," Remus commented flippantly. "Okay, I say...turnips!"

"No professor," Hermione frowned. "I mean, I cannot abide for an institution that blatantly supports slavery."

"Oh, and I fully understand your position. How fortunate that Hogwarts now pays the house elves for their services, so their thrall shall no longer be on your conscience."

"Oh dear. I haven't an argument for that."

"Okay," said Professor Lupin. "I win."

"No you don't!" she argued with a pout. "Let me think for a moment."

"No, this is timed." _Damn it_, Hermione thought with familiar school girl panic. She hadn't known this—what ever the hell this was—was timed! "I win. You're going to have to be an indentured servant-professor and pay off your debt."

"No! I have another reason!" Hermione said triumphantly.

One simply couldn't—or rather, she refused to—teach children and keep juvenile peace when bloated as a whale. It'd be too much for the children to deal with her mood swings, and too much for her hormones to deal with a riotous bunch every day.

"Let's hear it then," Lupin invited, who was looking maddeningly complacent now that he was quite sure he had a new colleague with whom he'd work happily.

"I—" the words stuck in the throat. It wasn't as if she doubted the merit of her argument—although she felt slightly guilty to use her baby as an argument—but rather, she doubted on telling the person. Really, she thought, the Weasleys had more priority than Professor Remus Lupin, as kind as he was, to know before anybody else.

"I cordially invite you to a lunch party," she proudly announced instead.

Remus frowned slightly. "Ah...not _much_ of an argument there...unless you're trying to bribe your way out of the job..."

"No. At the lunch party. I'll tell you why at the lunch party."

"Honestly, Hermione, a private party just to tell me your silly and arguable reason why you can't work at the greatest educational institution on earth? It's a lot of unnecessary trouble."

"It's not just you, silly." Hermione then immediately blushed and berated herself for calling her professor "silly," thinking dismally that, in the small chance she were to take the job, it would be painfully difficult to think of him as a colleague. "The Weasleys will be there, as will Harry, Seamus, Neville and some of the other professors...oh and Poppy the Muggle."

"Rather informative name, that last one."

"Stop joking." She furrowed her brows in deep thought. "Is two weeks enough notice?"

"No," Remus argued immediately. "For school will commence in one week, leaving me to double up classes until you come to your senses and start work!"

"Why you?"

"Because it was my responsibility to convince you."

"Oh. Good luck then," she chirped indifferently, still bit wounded from his "indentured servant-professor" threat.

"Look, make it tomorrow," Remus insisted.

"But people have plans for tomorrow! It's not nearly enough time for them to clear their schedules!" Hermione retorted, aghast, thinking that it was not something her mother would have done.

"Give me your guest list, and I'll arrange it. But, really, I need a decision as soon as possible."

Hermione rose to fetch the newly made list—all the while thinking it very convenient of him to stop by after she finished it—and returned with a frown.

"I've already made my decision. You mean you want a consent as soon as possible."

"Very true. See? We need a clever girl like you as soon as possible."

"Wow, what a poor argument."

"Better than others," he replied.

They both jumped at the sudden _crack_, and the ensuing noise in the kitchen. "Look, I know it's Wednesday," they heard Fred—or George, for they really did have nearly identical voices—say in exasperation. "But Percy's being a complete prick and George is at the store so I decided to—oh! Hi professor!"

It was the innocently cheerful greeting and hidden hands behind his back that set Professor Lupin to his feet.

"Fred Weasley," he greeted amiably enough. "Show your hands."

Hermione twisted in her seat to see, and was disappointed to find nothing in Fred's outstretched palms.

"Nothing," Fred said with a small smile. "The hands behind the back thing is a reflex when it comes to seeing professors." The twin paused. "What're you doing here?" he demanded with his usually adept social skills.

"Friendly chat," Remus answered easily, sending Hermione a look of pity. "Have fun then." With a friendly nod to both, their former professor disapparated from the flat. She wasn't sure, but she was fairly certain that his apparating _pop _was much more considerate and less intrusive than Fred's.

"What're we having?" Fred wanted to know, searching through the cupboards and frigo eagerly. "A lot of food here. Did he go shopping lately?"

In the aftermath, the boys chose not to mention each others' names, which Hermione found very silly, for it wasn't as if the mere sound of it would bring the owner of the name home. Also, she thought it confusing as well, as one when said "he" or "him," there were two people to fit into that category.

"Hmm," was her answer, and sank back down into the couch. "Fred? Cook something for me, will you please? I'm practically starving for supper."

"It's only five, Hermione."

"Well, then, make a snack," she snapped. "I'm practically on the verge of malnutrition."

"All right, I believe you," Fred sighed. "You've the cheerful disposition of a starving woman."

"Don't be so cheeky," she ordered in a less harsh tone, "after all, you're the one intruding on my Wednesday. You have to cook."

Fred, having picked up a thing or two from his culinary gifted parent, set about doing so. He prepared her a small snack to improve her mood, and then quietly and surprisingly spent two hours preparing supper. Hermione had taken two naps in her wait, and was surprised to find a three course meal awaiting her.

Fred had walked over to the couch to wake her up. While waiting for her to gain her bearings, Fred spied something on the coffee table. "Hullo," he said loudly, causing drowsy Hermione to wince a bit. "What's this?"

Hermione watched with sleepy reluctance as Fred picked up and unfolded the financial information Remus Lupin had supposedly left behind.

"Lemon Sherbert balls, Nougat, Acid Pops, Pepper Imps, Chocoballs, Cockroach clusters...Hermione? What're you doing with Dumbledore's grocery list?"

Hermione made a mental note to kill Remus Lupin the next time she saw him.

"Fred? I'm having a lunch party tomorrow..."

xoxox

**women would be invisible. **

**Nancy Drew**


	15. A Fish Walks into a Bar

**Hello everybody.**

**I was hesitant in posting. Not because of some silly little sports event, or some silly little fear of pleasing reviewers.**

**But it is a type of fear. You see, I've learned very recently, the hard way, that there is no way to keep my story safe. I'm posting on the internet, there is no lawyer nor copyright symbol protecting me. I'm not exactly sure if there is such a plagiarism policy here on Ffnet, as there is on Muggle net. And, if I can report such a problem, where do I begin?**

**But that's not the problem; "getting" the plagiarist. It's just the _fact_ that I have to worry about such things that bothers me. I mean, I thought, because we all have the same interest and love of reading/writing...people would steal from you, in this community. Perhaps I was being naive. Perhaps I was being too childish.**

**I won't name him/her, or say which story of mine s/he's denied copying (and I wish I could believe him/her! How I wish, wish, wish I could believe him/her! Things would be so much better if I was wrong, and being paranoid, and not being stolen from! But really, it's suspicious when a s/he can't spell "meant" or "honored" properly, but manages to use "eviscerate!") But, whatever his/her goal, I must say it's made me hesitate in this story. I mean, at least some authors who has liked this enough to write a spin-off has asked permission. The fact that some person would blatantly copy, word for fucking word, and then deny the whole thing...**

**Well, I cried. I dunno if I'm a big baby, but writing is my love. It's what makes me smile. Writing can make everything okay, it can make me proud of my talent. And when somebody just takes that away from me, just steals the credit and all the hard work and brainstorming I've put into my work and just slaps their name on it, for the stupid sake of getting reviews...well, I cry. **

**But then, I figure, while I don't know that person who stole my story (I can only be eternally thankful to the reviewer "copied?" who pointed out the similarity) I DO know the people who read this story. And I know you guys and like you guys enough to know that you'd never do such an atrocious act, so I'll stop bitching now and stop my lengthy author's note.**

**Oh, and to those who were displeased with the baby length of the last chapter...ahem, ahem... :0) Here is thirty pages worth. Well, it was thirty pages on my processor, any way, so please don't think I'm lying to avoid the tarring and feathering!**

**Oh, and oh! I do hope that my rather...er...eccentric reviewers were...um...eccentric to begin with, and didn't become insane BECAUSE of my writing:0**)

**Athena Linborn: **I know, I know...nobody likes a midget chapter! Still, one must appreciate the small things in life! Why, I don't know where I'd be if I didn't have short chapters, short lines, and my shortest toe...

Okay, I hope I was distracting enough that you didn't notice I was trying to shy away from the blame of a short chapter!

I didn't know the word "interesting" had a bad sense. Hmm...must go back and review all the times somebody said "interesting."

Pretty sure there will be no belly button communication...there are only a certain number of idiotic moments per chapter, and Harry takes the cake in this one...

**Delovely: **Fred's cute. I lurve him. And, even if he did have some prank in his hands, who could punish such an adorable man?

Yeah, that Dumbeldore and his totally non-nutritious diet. Shame on him! (Though, technically, chocolate cockroaches could count as meat!) Somebody ought to talk to him about that. Maybe, if Hermione takes the job, she could pester him at the castle...

**patagonia: **It's sad, isn't it? How simple guys are when it comes to friendship (just sitting around, watching the television, occasionally handing each other a beer...okay, I'm stereotyping, but still...) and how elaborate girls are when it comes to friendship (I couldn't even begin the intricacies of that relationship)! Completely different!

Yeah, nobody ever puts Remus as the scheming one! Still, with Sirius gone (aw, sad!) somebody has to start plotting deviously! And who better than the smart one?

**GIRL W/PNK CONVERSE: **Wow, I always want to put an "I" between the "P" and the "NK!" And then I have to backspace it, because then I remember there is no I...oky-doky, moving on...

All right, all righty! I figure 6 days after your review sorta counts as "soon"...right? Well, it's soon for me, considering my normal updating time!

**Monkeystarz: **Okay...I wish I could be the mature adult and tell you to stop inhaling things before you review...

But I can't, because, as silly and nonsensical your reviews were, they made me laugh!

Especially that "sip...sip...sip" part!

"Adore" is a very good word. And, if you have lost your sanity, let it wander for a while, for you are very entertaining without it! I especially like who you invert your subject and verbs, giving your reviews a "Yoda" effect!

I cannot believe you don't like chocolate! My life would be nothing without chocolate! It would be...a lot better, come to think of it, since I'd have a smaller ass...but whatever! Hooray for chocolate! Oh, and HOORAY FOR ORANGE JUICE, who will NOT be killed.

You don't have to have a reason to be in love with Fred. He's just oh so lovable.

You DO have to have a reason to be in love with your wall, however. But, if you'd like to keep that between you and your lucky wall, I won't invade your privacy!

Well, I'd be glad to read any of your stories, but just say which one. I must warn you, however, I am notoriously nit-picky, so if there are any blatant spelling or grammar mistakes, I tend to write the whole thing off. I generally don't click on stories that have bad spelling or grammar in their summaries. Picky, I know!

I find it funny that you managed to say "poodles" and "noodles" in your reviews. I'm pretty sure I haven't had a review that has had either of those words!

**otakuannie: **Aw, it's okay. I'll always remember your long, deleted review, even if I never had the chance to read it! Hee,hee, WHERE does Fred have three less freckles? Okay, enough of my pervy humor...

I'm sorry to hear about your bad experience with an Italian. If it makes you feel any better, keep in mind that I maimed, hospitalized, and then killed the only Italian in this story!

It would be so much easier to be gay, but then again, we girls are smart, so it would be difficult to get away with anything! I'm glad you liked the chapter (enough to dance around!) And I hope you like this interminable one as well!**  
**

**Sissiro: **Lupin, I suspect, can make up for the lack of anything. I love that professor! Any who, yes, very wise to keep anti-Yankee comments to yourself. But, if it makes you feel better, I was cheering for the Cards throughout the entire series...pretty sure the entire state of New York was cheering for the Cards, in fact...and then damn! Red Sox win! I thought it would be a lot cloudier when hell froze over!

Yes, I noticed that few stories characterize the animals' responses to startling changes, so I decided not to neglect Hermione and Harry's pets. I don't mind if your reviews are spelled wrong, it's the sentiment that counts!

**sugar n spice 522: **You've no idea how long it took to remember which candies Dumbledore likes and which one he does not enjoy! Yeah, I figured since Remus was the closest thing Harry had to a father figure...well, closest LIVING thing he has to a father figure...he would have told Remus about his return. I know what you mean, about stories writing themselves! I just wish that THIS story would go ahead an write its own ending!

**Crystallized Snow: **I really enjoyed your chirpy review, and I'm sorry to hear about your difficulties with the opposite sex. Boys! You can't live with them, and you're not allowed to castrate them either!

I doubt people look at you weird because you say "bloody brilliant." They're probably just oh so jealous you have a broad vocabulary. At least, that's what I tell myself when I get weird looks...

And yes, hooray for werewolves teaching students! I'm all for it! I'm also all for lunch parties, so the fact that we'll have a werewolf AT a lunch party...it's like Christmas in October!

OF COURSE I feel special that you give me long reviews! I feel even more special knowing that you give me happy, chirpy ones. So there! Special-ness all around!

**Onion Layers: **Yes, our Hermione is a resilient character, isn't she? I don't know if the reactions will be "interesting," though that word does some to be the best used...oh well, all I can do is cross my fingers (very difficult when typing!) and hope for the best!

**Dastardly Snail: **So...what would happened to your day if you accidentally yelled out "Radishes!"? Would the sky fall? Any who, hooray for turnips and radishes!

**Oli: **Isn't "Nutterwank" a great name? I think so any way, and god bless whoever is burdened with that wonderful label! Of course, very few people in America know what "wank" is, but luckily, my overexposure to BBC America and a whole lotta books has improved my vocabulary. Thanks so much...I'm writing a sequel, of sorts to Vague Verity, but at the rate I'm going...sigh. Any who, I believe all writers, at one point or another, has written a Mary Sue. Some are even successful at it (Louisa May Alcott, for example...but that's just my opinion).

And ew, Hunter Redfern? Now, ASH Redfern...he's hunky dory...And be careful, Oli. Making jokes about wands to random strangers will get you arrested...or, at the very least, publicly scolded!

Almost forgot Remus, actually, poor old man! But I do like him, more than most of the adults in the Harry Potter books, so I had to work him in somewhere! Thanks again!

The Painted Past

Chapter 15

**Everyone has his day **

xoxox

"_The crows," Hermione muttered, ignoring the shooting pains in her right ankle. _

"_What?" Harry asked, in a voice too loud, suggesting some explosion or other had damaged his hearing. The field was eerily quiet, the fog so thick that Hogwarts was no longer visible._

_A good majority of their survivors had been carried or furtively walked back to castle...or, that's what Hermione liked to assume. She had shouted the retreat until her throat grew hoarse, and even then she repeated the orders in a tired, half human voice. The grey mists stole her visibility, so that Harry's injured body was merely an outline of black and red._

"_The crows," Hermione muttered, voice rising with panic. She tried to raise herself, and barely managed to stand for a few seconds before crumpling once more to the ground._

"_Harry," she whispered urgently, tears filling her eyes as the immense pain grew. "Harry, the crows!"_

_They were only the first, of course. Crows, then rats, and then flies, and then other magical scavengers. Professor Lupin had taught them, long ago, how to deal with Red Caps, but that didn't mean she wanted an encounter. Hermione, after watching the process before, had tried many times to forget the certain order at which her enemies and soldiers deteriorated. But it would be the birds who didn't care that their fodder was still breathing, pecking and biting viciously until the victim stopped struggling enough to give them a peaceful meal._

"_Bugger," Harry drawled, in a muffled voice that suggested he was still face first in the ground. The rains of summer had been abundant, softening the ground before the battles and then washing it away afterwards. "You're right. Let's go."_

_In the morning light, or lack thereof, she could barely see the morose waves churning beneath the heavy clouds. The thick stillness was sometimes interrupted by a Death Eater's last breath, or the last mournful moan of a fellow student before surrendering to unconsciousness. _

"_Harry?" Her voice was a pitiful, small whimper in the vast nothingness. _

_Nothing._

"_Harry, where are you?" she asked the empty space desperately, trying to swallow the bile in her throat. Already, tiny scratches and pitter patters were filling the field, no doubt claiming and squabbling over the grotesque corpses. Dizziness threatened to overcome her as she tried to stand, and felt a sickening snap in her ankle. _

"_Harry please!" she begged, unable to help her rising volume. It would be stupid, she knew in the back of her mind, to bring attention to herself. But she was alone in a field of the dying, already forgotten by their comrades, and she did not want to stay._

_With scratched and sore arms, she managed to drag her body to where she thought Harry might have fallen. The mud, already soaked with rains, seemed even more slippery with the added moisture of spilled blood. She wanted to think the chunks her fingers encountered were merely dirt clods and pieces of wood; not anything to do with the lifeless bodies around her. _

_She blinked as a familiar moisture began to fall from above. How long had she been here? Hours? Minutes? Where was Harry? He couldn't have forgotten her, could he? She would not be washed away with their fallen comrades, would she?_

_Her trembling fingers met the rough, warm texture of a cloak and, without thinking, she dug her fingers into the material, wincing as her nails broke and her rough skin snagged. Hermione summoned her strength and pulled the inert body towards her._

_Only to find Marcus Flint's eyes gazing blankly at her._

"_Harry!" she yelled now, her voice wild and unrecognisable. A quiet, undecipherable murmur began to buzz around the field, and Hermione thought she saw the hopping bodies of hungry birds among the deceased._

"_Harry! Harry!"_

xoxox

Harry grabbed Hermione's flailing hands, unintentionally bruising them as he clasped them close to his chest. He was kneeling on her bed, trying like hell to stop her jerky movements before she hurt herself.

"Hermione!" he ground out, shaking her roughly. "Hermione, wake up!"

Hermione's eyes were squeezed very tight, streams of tears pouring from them silently. Her mouth moved constantly, speaking quietly and strained, as though she wanted to scream but lacked the strength.

"Hermione!" Harry now shouted, giving her one hard shake.

Her eyes flew open, the chocolate orbs focusing confusedly on his face.

"Harry?" she whispered, tone filled with fear.

"Yes," he sighed, releasing her hands so that she could sit. "You were yelling."

"You left me," she accused in a shaking voice, the droplets still falling from her eyes. Hermione sat amidst her bed sheets with uncontrollable shivers. "You left me and I couldn't find you."

"Hermione—"

"And I hurt my ankle but I couldn't find you!" she continued, the words cracking as she remembered. "Where were you!"

"I'm sorry!" Harry bit out before he realised what he was saying. Hermione shrank back at his volume, and said nothing. Hair tousled, Harry rubbed uneasily at the back of his neck as he looked at anything but her.

It was, he reckoned, a bit past midnight. The near full moon was causing strange shadows upon her window, and Crookshanks stared up at him with concern written on his ugly, flat face.

"The fifth battle, huh?" he asked, breaking the silence once he heard her catch her breath. "You were dreaming of the fifth battle?"

She said nothing, and only stooped over the side of the bed to capture Crookshanks in her arms.

"Happened around this time."

"Did it?" She spoke steadily now, eyes full of familiar curiosity.

"Yeah. We lost...I think. It was all a bit blurry."

"What does it officially say?"

He shrugged. "Haven't checked. I don't really remember, any way. I passed out a great deal. I didn't leave you, Hermione. I simply wasn't conscious enough to hear you."

"Oh."

Crookshanks purred as Hermione petted it in deep thought.

"Is there anything you need?" Harry asked, still worried she was shaken up by the nightmare.

There was, although she was somewhat scared of his reaction. "Yes."

Only ten minutes. Harry was rather proud, and privately disturbed, as he saw just how much weight his name carried in the restricted areas of the Ministry. He was beginning to understand why Hermione was often indignant when Fred and George welcomed him with open arms. Suppose he was a vengeful Death Eater, he wanted to know as they walked to the door. Suppose he was merely a puppet, and all these silly people with their silly hero worship would play right into the Dark Lord's hands, now, wouldn't they? Granted, the Dark Lord was dead, and it put a number of people into a ridiculously cosy frame of mind. His natural paranoia—the nurtured product of an eventful seven year stay at Hogwarts—was a bit wasted, Harry thought, now that the world was relatively at peace. Still, he would have to have a word, he decided, with whoever was in charge of security, and tell them that he didn't care if Merlin himself waltzed in here, there really should have been a more difficult process of entry.

"Hello," Harry greeted the guard as if it were a pleasant afternoon instead of one in the morning. "Stopped by for a visit."

The guard, nearly twice Harry's age and most assuredly three times his height, stared impassively at the pair, both of whom were reputed to be the most talented witch and wizard of their time. He reminded Harry faintly of a flesh coloured Frankenstein, and the young wizard tilted his head to surreptitiously see if Mr. Guard had bolts on the sides of his neck.

"Have you a pass?" Harry focused his attention once more on the wizard's face at the question.

"Ah, no," Hermione, always a lover of rules, said apologetically.

"Have you an appointment?"

"That'll be a no as well," Harry said cheerfully.

"Then I suggest you return with one or the either, and return then."

"Oy, cheeky fellow aren't you?" Harry couldn't help saying, though he knew that the guard was right. It did not matter, Harry and Hermione soon saw, how the man took Harry Potter's teasing. For within a matter of two seconds, the man had suddenly slid, still in his wound up, standing position, to the side and out of the way. The door swung open silently, revealing a shadowy room behind it.

"I...I'll just wait out here," Harry decided, after a study of the occupant and then the guard. Mr. Frankenstein-Guard looked like infinitely better company.

Hermione, without hesitation, had already swept in, quickly closing the door behind them. "You could do that? Even without your wand?"

Draco, sitting up in his bed, shrugged casually, as if it were no trifle at all that he could easily escape from his prison. In the solid darkness, she could not see his face, or how he welcomed this unexpected visit. She heard, however, the thinly veiled concern in his nonchalant question. "Are you all right? Missed me, did you?"

She didn't know how she managed, around the furniture and in the inky blackness, to walk to his bed. And she didn't know why she felt so small and vulnerable, needing more than anything to feel his arms around her. It was a silly dream; a silly dream that was done and buried.

"It's all right," Draco murmured, those familiar words only serving to cause her to sob louder. She had curled into him, partially in his lap, trying and failing to tell him about the nightmare. "It'll be all right, Mione."

His hand gently ran through her hair in a comforting rhythm, while his other hand rested protectively on the small of her back.

"And...the-the crows..."

"Blasted animals," he said quietly, bending slightly to lay a chaste kiss on her forehead. "I shall eradicate them at once."

"...M-Marcus Fl-Fl—"

"Damn bastard. Shall I kill him for you, Hermione?"

"He's already dead!" she whimpered into his cloth covered chest.

"See? Aren't I efficient?" he teased softly, ruffling her hair a bit. Hermione, in spite of herself, hiccuped a sob that managed to turn into a watery chuckle. She used, as the tears subsided, his pyjama top to wipe her wet cheeks, only belatedly noticing something.

"You're wearing a top."

"Does it displease you?" he asked, voice still gentle and teasing, indicating he had no idea she was done with her emotional tumble. "I'll strip, if you're so against it."

"But," Hermione continued, voice stronger as she pulled away slightly to stare into his face. She could barely make the outline of his chin. "But you never wear a top."

"But you're not here to impress," he pointed out with a smile. "So what's the point of going bare breasted?"

Now she let out a tearless, genuine laugh, and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Oh, you're very silly."

"And irresistibly lovable," he added, snaking both arms around her waist so that she sat completely in his lap. "So, Mione," Draco murmured against her hair, "how goes the world?"

"Well, on the news–"

"Let me rephrase that," he cut in softly. "How goes your world? You're the only thing worth noting." It was sweet and untrue. Hermione pushed away the nervousness his disregard for the baby had stirred up within her.

Naturally, the most important recent event in her life were the rifts between Harry, Fred, and George. But, she suspected that Draco did not care too much about that. "I made a friend, the other day," she said cheerfully.

He was obviously amused by her inane tone. "Really? Before or after nap time?"

"Shut up. It was quite accidental. I bumped into her on my way out. I spilt her milk."

If Draco found the explanation lacking, he did not show any indication. "I see. And did anybody cry?"

She ignored his exaggeratedly patient tone, and only smiled. "I like her a great deal. She's very practical."

He clucked his tongue. "Now, now, I fear we're straying outside our original subject; namely, you."

"I don't want to be selfish."

"How fortunate that you have me to be selfish for you."

Hermione laughed quietly. Yes, there were times when she hated him, and his cold calculating, and his selfish decisions, and his immovable ideas... And then there were times, like this, that she loved him completely, so much so that she was unable to name exactly why.

"Draco? Did you do that thing, with the guard?"

"No." He sounded so nonchalant and so sincere that she nearly believed him. She would have, too, if not for the fact that this was Draco, whose good looks and amazing abilities in falseness could have persuaded the stars to leave the sky.

"Draco," she sighed, a hint of steely warning in her tone.

"Hmm? Oh, fine, yes. Only because I heard your voice. If it was merely Potter, I wouldn't have tried."

"But doesn't the guard mind?"

"No. Teeternuk doesn't remember, you see, that I do those sort of things. It would be a right inconvenience if he were to report that to administration."

By now, Hermione had reached forward and turned on a lamp, to catch a better profile of his face. "Are you being treated well?"

It would have been an opportune moment to lie, say he was being beaten and starved, and suggest her interference with the case. But Draco felt the niggling itch of his Conscience once more, and nodded his head with a smile.

"Though, needless to say," he added when she relaxed, "that that guard Teeternuk isn't half as beautiful as you. Less insults, mind you, but still not as visually pleasing."

Hermione pretended to pout as she wove her fingers through his hair. "Your hair needs cutting."

"Nonsense. Perhaps, if it grows long enough, I'll make a rope, climb down, and escape."

"You're underground. There's nothing to climb down to." He thought about it, nodded, and admitted it was a good point. "Plus, you already could escape."

"Yes. But I don't care much for the life of a fugitive. Shying away from the sun..."

"You're already pale as a ghost, Draco." He ignored her.

"Living off of scraps..."

"Or ferrets...oh, I'm sorry, you're not one for cannibalism, are you?"

Again, he decided to pretend deafness. "And not being able to see you."

"Oh, that's very sweet. I've half a mind to drop the charges."

He clucked his tongue with mock disappointment. "Disappointing woman. A few flowery words and you'll set a criminal at large? So very typical of your sex."

"And that is why," she laughed, removing herself from the tangle of his arms and standing before him, "I am not going to drop the charges. In prevention of the shame of my gender."

"Your gender's already ashamed of you," he retorted. "Have you read Witch Weekly?"

"Oh no," she yawned. "I've had enough bull shit in the past few months."

He raised an eyebrow at her boldness and ignored it. "What a little bed conqueror you are. First Draco Malfoy, and then Seamus Finnigan?"

"What?"

Draco smiled. "Yes. There was a photo of you two standing on his door step. Finnigan looked absurdly pleased to see you."

"Seamus Finnigan is absurdly pleased to see anybody," she snapped, annoyed.

"Then why, pray tell, is he holding your hand in the photograph?"

"He is holding my hand," she answered, irritated beyond adequate description, "because hand-holding is a necessary step in the process of hand shaking."

"Ah. And he was shaking your hand because...?"

"Because I was simply there! There's no real reason!" Damn that wretched boy and his wretched enthusiasm for everything. "I suppose they failed to mention that it was also Neville Longbottom's residence as well? And that I was there to see him?"

"Well, love, they neglected to mention that. It's no wonder; after all, the happy boy has a better chance at romance than Longbottom. Hell, even your cat has a better chance at romance than Longbottom. The journalist was most likely picking your romantic interest with a logical mind."

Hermione snatched a sheaf of papers sitting on his table and angrily browsed through them. Surely it was slander! Surely it was libel! In her incensed frame of mind, she could not remember which was the correct term when it came to published falsehoods, but, either way, it was very bad!

"These must be doctored!" Hermione declared angrily. There was a picture of her and Seamus holding hands, another with Seamus carrying her parcel...in a few of them, she seemed to be practically radiant with her brisk pace. Seamus was equally sweaty, though it seemed to be his own fault, as he was wearing a long sleeved shirt in the middle of summer...

"This is Harry's body!" she squawked, eyes bulging. Draco, already startled with her accusation, pressed himself against the wall when she shoved the pile of papers into his chest. "That's Seamus' head, on Harry's body! It doesn't make any sense! Surely, the story of Harry's return would sell more papers than a false love affair–"

Draco frowned, and studied the photographs. "So...Seamus has been giving Harry head?"

Hermione, who had been pacing, whirled to him with a fearsome expression. "Don't start jokes now. This is my reputation at stake here...or, at least, what tatters remains of it." Her love did not find that amusing in the least, and only continued his homosexual jokes of Harry and Seamus' nonexistent relationship until she threatened to smother him with his own pillows.

Draco Malfoy, despite his present abode and precarious hold on freedom, appeared to be smiling very smugly, causing Hermione, who thought such irrational and unfounded press would die after the War, to suggest something very rude and physically impossible to her former husband.

"Now, now," he said slyly, chuckling at her short temper. "Such language in front of our son."

That brought Hermione, who had been pacing and ranting against the immoral writers of the world, to a halt. "And why do you insist it will be a son?"

"Because I'm blessed that way."

"I want a daughter."

"Well, I'm sorry, Hermione, but you simply can't have everything your way," was his annoyingly calm reply.

"Neither can you."

"Oh yes. It has been my life long dream to be stuck in a prison, have my wife hate me, and my family and friends abandon me."

"Self pity does not become you, Draco Malfoy. Besides, you're not in prison. You're in a holding cell."

"For the time being," he pointed out with a shrug, far too nonchalant to be genuine. At the sight of her confused expression, Draco elaborated gently, "The evidentiary searches. They're done now. Surely you know that."

Hermione's mouth dropped open in surprise. She had completely forgotten! After so many events, it was difficult to keep them in order...

"I had thought that that had been the reason of your visit. To see me, before the trial."

"When is it?" she asked, almost afraid.

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" she repeated, shocked again. "But, surely, there's millions of pieces of evidence. They couldn't have processed and categorized them so soon! It's appalling, how eager they are to convict you! Perhaps, I may speak to somebody about this–"

"Hermione," he interrupted, with a small chuckle that was for her sake instead of his own. "Don't bother."

"Don't bother? Why, it sounds as if they have the entire Ministry hell bent on seeing you behind bars, and you tell me not to bother? Don't be absurd! You have every right to a fair and objective trial, and the speediness blatantly shows their prejudice–"

"You're not usually this upset," he noted, some seriousness in his laughing eyes. "Is the pregnancy already causing mood swings?"

Hermione knew what he was doing, though she pondered the reasons why. Draco did hate to see her so upset; indeed, she was very near tears at the thought of his upcoming sentencing. But, Hermione wondered silently, was he distracting her for her sake, or for the fear of the baby's health?

It didn't matter. He was exhibiting a rare moment of selflessness, and she was not one to reject it. So, playing along, she pretended that his simple question had set off a disturbingly loud speech, which included the male habit of blaming hormones instead of their own bad behavior.

Outside, Harry had been trying to make small talk with the guard whose name, after much prying, he learned was Alfred Teeternuk.

"Interesting," he said. "Ah, Italian, I suppose?"

It was a joke, but Alfred Teeternuk gave no indication of humour. Instead he gave the barest of frowns, which Harry took for a no.

"You're not the usual guard."

"I am for this shift."

"Oh." A pause. "I suppose not many stop by for a visit around this hour, do they?"

"Just two."

"Really?" Harry asked, suspicions tapped. He supposed it was a great deal too naïve to think that Draco hadn't been planning something or other.

The impassive guard's eyes slid meaningfully to Harry, who had been standing beside him, and Harry immediately felt sheepish.

"Er...you mean me and Mione, then?"

"Yes."

Harry looked down and up the hall. It was silent place, with plain doors of uninteresting shade and number. None of them, he noticed, bore any intimidating guards at the portal.

Alfred Teeternuk, Harry reflected as he rocked back and forth on his heels, must have felt right special in being chosen to guard one of the most powerful criminals in Wizarding history.

"Do you want to hear a joke?" Harry asked abruptly after his fifth and unsurprising study of their surroundings. Alfred gave no indication of a yes, but then again, Harry noted optimistically, he gave no indication of a no, either.

"Right, so a fish walks into a bar—"

"A fish cannot walk."

Harry frowned. The guard who rarely spoke now, of all times, decides to open his mouth, only to ruin his joke? Really. It was almost as if he didn't like him.

"Well, this one does. Proper athletic fish, it is. Well, as I was saying, a fish walks into a bar. The fish says to the bartender—"

"Fish don't speak."

"What?" Harry demanded, growing agitated.

"Fish. They don't communicate with words."

Harry scratched his head in irritation. "Right well, it's a bilingual, athletic fish. Any way, the—"

"Just lingual."

"What?"

"English then, would be its only language."

"You're forgetting fish language," Harry pointed out, chin thrust out stubbornly. "Fishish," he decided, coming up with the animal language on the spot.

"I told you, they don't communicate with words." Despite the silliness of this argument, Alfred Teeternuk maintained the solemn air of a cadaver.

"As far as you know," Harry pointed out, arms crossed. "Fish might have very decent conversations, and you haven't a clue because you're stuck here, in the Corridor of Silence." Harry was becoming very proud of his own creativity. First, "Fishish," and now, "Corridor of Silence." Perhaps it was time to start thinking of names for Hermione's devil baby...

"Have you had a conversation with a fish?" Alfred asked, the faintest of lines appearing between his eyebrows in doubt.

"I've been on amiable terms with fish all my life," Harry argued, which was somewhat truthful, as he had, to the best of his knowledge, never argued with the silent, swimming creatures. "They're very pleasant," he added, which was also not a lie, as no fish had ever insulted him. They hadn't complimented him either, but that would not help his argument, ridiculous as it was, right now.

Alfred looked flustered, which meant the line between his thick brows became slightly deeper. "All right. The joke then?"

But Alfred Teeternuk never learned what the fish said to the bartender, for the door suddenly swung open, and the visitor announced the end of the visit. Harry observed that she looked much better, with more colour, dryer eyes, and, if he wasn't mistaken, a satisfied smile upon her lips that suggested a snog had taken place. But, seeing that his mind refused to turn down that disgusting avenue of imagination, Harry left Alfred on tenterhooks, and proceeded to leave him as soon as possible.

But, snogged or not, Hermione was still tremendously bossy. She had stepped onto the lift, dragged him in, and then, quite without warning, had pushed him out on the second level, ordering him—without a please, Harry noted with irritation—to retrieve two Auror applications. She told him—as if he were a child!—to wait for her by the fountain in the atrium, and not to wander, for she wouldn't waste time searching for him. Then, after the doors had closed on his funnily surprised face, she waited until she could step out to the fifth floor. Harry spent an inordinate amount of time frowning at the lift doors, wishing that giving it his emerald scowl had any effect.

She had never been a fan of nepotism. Really, she thoroughly disapproved of those who used their name to get their way. Still, she reflected as she submitted her name and vague visiting purpose to the general secretary, she had better use this ephemeral good will from the Ministry while it still lasted. After all, she was, in a few months, ready to partake in a reasonably nasty and most definitely illegal spell. Her name was bound to transfigure into mud once more after the wizarding government learned she had conspired with a hero and notorious criminal to veritably spit on the rules of metaphysics...

Hermione shook her head as yet another somebody or other ushered her to yet another waiting room, this one nicer than the previous. She did not want to think of how many rules had to be broken for this future ceremony. She would most likely grow ill when she reached the hundreds.

"The Minister will see you now."

Hermione raised her eyebrows in incredible surprise. She had simply asked for a mere favour from an assistant or paper pusher from the International Office of Law. Granted, Hermione did think it rather bold of herself to ask for a small, tiny, minuscule, so-small-it-needed-no-measurement exception to the Wizard's Statute of Secrecy.

For, she realised with uncharacteristic slowness, that Poppy the Muggle might not fully grasp the topics of conversation at this afternoon's lunch party.

"Are you sure I can't just talk to...?" Hermione looked out the door window desperately, and pointed to a young, handsome, up and coming wizard. The assistant followed her finger and frowned.

"He's a custodian, ma'am."

Ah. Right. Not quite the stature she had been hoping for. But really, she did not want to speak with the Minister!

She had very little choice, however, and found herself, after her many dragged steps, sitting in the Minister's office. It was, for lack of better description, a very nice place. There was the standard small library, standard august desk, and standard important looking quill and ink well. On the walls were various certificates and photographs, and even some ribbons for, if Hermione's literacy was not mistaken, survival skills.

Just who the hell was this new Minister any ways?

The man in question tumbled, loudly and with an air of "I did that on purpose" from the enormous fire place. When gravity and the waxed hard wood floor stopped toying with him, the most important man in the UK magical government found himself in a fetal position, spinning slowly to a stop on his hunched back.

Before Hermione could rise from her seat, the man popped out of his position and stood, dusting his staid blue suit, only successfully managing to move lint from one area of his sleeve to another equally linty area.

"Are you all right?" she couldn't help but ask with a disconcerted frown as the man, no more than forty, strode to his chair. Once the soot and rubbish had been vanished with a flick of his wand, Hermione saw that, perhaps, a layer of grey ash was better.

His hair was a shocking shade of purple. A person of lesser sight might have mistaken it for black, it was so dark, but Hermione had sense enough to know that black hair did not reflect violet like that. If that was not unforgivable enough, it was alarmingly curly, as if a poodle and a clown's mane had mated and produced the colorful, plant like affair on the Minister's head. His face was long and lean, nose short and crooked, and body tall and knobby. The suit, as nicely tailored as it was, was too short above his plank board like shoes, and it gave the appearance that this man bore a growth spurt every two minutes and quite resigned to the fact.

"Am I all right?" the man repeated, voice surprisingly deep. Hermione guessed he was much older than he thought...thirty, then? "Do you know who I am?"

"Uproariously rude?" Hermione demanded, not used to be treated in such a patronising manner by somebody who wasn't old enough to enter a room properly.

"Oh, ha, ha, ha," he said dryly. "Hermione Granger's certainly wise, isn't she?"

"I just wanted to see if you're all right," she snapped, refusing the desire to cross her arms and sink back in her chair with a pout.

"Young lady, I am a Prewett." He gestured to the many awards on the shelves behind his desk. "I have survived more than any wizard has in this hemisphere." He paused, scratched his pointed chin, and added, "Well, except for one. But he's missing, I've heard, so I get to say that until he returns." This last part was said with an unabashed rubbing if his hands, as if something maniacal was afoot.

Hermione's eyes darted side to side, wondering if there was anybody else who thought this minister was certifiable. She found a hamster with an impressively large cage, and that rodent did not care a bit.

"Ah yes." With a disturbing amount of rickety, jerky movements that Hermione concluded was called walking, Mr. Prewett moved to the colourful assortment of connecting tubes. "Many people are fascinated by my familiar. She was quite the ice breaker with the Canadian ambassador." He patted the ridiculously elaborate habitat, and made his way back to his desk with robotic movements. She saw, after some worried observation, that he did not suffer from any sort of muscular or neurological disorder; he was truly and bizarrely at ease with that gait.

Against her will, her mischievous mind decided it was the wonderful time to think of a long forgotten nursery rhyme. There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile...

She hadn't realised she was humming it until Prewett told her she was off key.

"It's all right," he assured her when she blushed. "Moody's off key as well."

"Mad-Eye sings?" Hermione asked with wide eyes.

"Hmm? No, no, Moody. The hamster!" He gestured impatiently to the fluffy rodent. "I named her that because she's a real nutter. Bites anything that goes in her cage. Sniffs and watches her food for days before eating it. Patrols the pipes every two hours." He shrugged. "If Moody would come here and see it, I'm fairly certain he'd approve."

"Okay..." Hermione refrained, painfully, from asking why and how did his pet sing. There were more important things at hand, of course.

"If we could...?" she prompted gently.

"Hmm? Oh, okay." He then scooted his chair back—too far, he noticed belatedly, when he careened into the book shelf behind him—scooted up, bent down, and pulled an enormous book from underneath to let it fall heavily on the desk. With great effort, he pulled it open, searching for the correct date.

"All right, December twenty first, nineteen hundred plus a hundred and then subtract two fifties," Which meant, Hermione thought with a hatred for all this redundancy, Nineteen hundred. He continued, "...ninety six times twenty three divided by forty six and multiplied by two..."After a rapid calculation, Hermione noticed again that he had arrived at the number he began with, but to no apparent success. Their Minister, their leader in world, magic politics, was under the impression it was nineteen ninety six.

"Actually," Hermione corrected apprehensively, inwardly wondering the fate of them all with such a man at the helm, "Today is bit later than that."

Prewett raised an eyebrow at being corrected, but his blue eyes slid to the hamster cage with obvious doubt. She had no idea what the rodent conveyed, but guessed it must have done some good. "Knew that," Mr. Prewett told her with a condescending nod. "It's...the twenty third, then?"

"Oh honestly," she sighed, and leaned forward to find the correct page herself.

"You can't touch that! I'm the Minister! I get to touch that! It's the Minister's book! It doesn't say Hermione Granger's book, now, does it!"

"It's almost September, Mr. Prewett," she said politely but with a discernible huff. Her dainty hands quickly found the correct place, though her view was upside down. "And we've left the last century years ago."

"Really?" Prewett bent low over the book, possessive animosity forgotten. He squinted and sneezed, sat up to pull a pair of square spectacles from his hair, and then reexamined the date book. Stretching from her seat, she could see the ink write and then rewrite the happenings of the Ministry, all activities recorded as such a speed that the page was turned before she could finish a sentence. "It's a shame. I was partial to the last century." Prewett leaned back and tucked the glasses into his hair once more. "I was born in it, you know."

Feeling that this was no great accomplishment, Hermione added, mocking his air of solemn self importance, "As was I."

"Really! Oh, splendid! I approve, you know, of people born in the last century. Up and comers, you know, upset me. Did you see Joe?"

"Joe?"

"Joe Figglesworth. That handsome custodian? He fancies my secretary." By the way he spoke, Hermione suspected that a purple haired somebody also fancied this secretary. "I wager he was born after the last century."

"And yet so phenomenally advanced for his age," she noted with the sinking feeling she was speaking to a mad man. That, or a wizard whose mathematical skills had fallen into a disgusting ruin.

"One could say that...Here for a favour then?" At Hermione's surprised expression, he slid a thin finger to something scribbled on the page. "Right here. Favour? Come now, I'm the Minister. Mustn't waste time."

Hermione opened her mouth to say something very uncouth indeed, but decided to against it. Prewett, held up a hand however, to stop a flow of words that weren't coming, while the other pulled open a drawer and searched. After another stretched silence, Hermione saw that her Minister's arm was elbow deep in rubber bands and rubber duckies.

"What the—"

"Like them? Gift from Arthur Weasley. Dozens of them in his office—or should I say flocks?"

She shrugged while he furthered his search, now shoulder deep in the open drawer. "I figured that, to comfort the bewildered creatures, they need to...er...nest...ouch what was that? Never mind. Birds of a feather, all that."

Hermione told him in a confused voice that rubber duckies, as they were not sentient, cared very little if they were segregated from the other office supplies made from materials other than rubber.

"Not sentient?" Prewett scoffed, at last finding his treasure. "What bit me, I'd like to know?"

Hermione could not answer that, and Prewett smiled smugly as he sat the name plate at the front of the desk. "There. Now we can work."

"And we couldn't work before without it?" Hermione asked with skepticism as she read Harold Gerald Prewett the First, Minister of Magic. She pondered the possibility of the production of a Harold Gerald—what horrible parents!—Prewett II, and very much hoped that there was nothing hereditary about mental health.

"Of course not," Prewett said after rolling his eyes and smiling at Moody. "One has to know whom one is dealing with! Suppose a stranger strolled in, hmm? It would be chaos! 'Look here, Hermione Granger, who are you speaking with? Why do you have official Minister business before you?'" His voice, mimicking, she supposed, one of the Ministry's guards, had taken a booming quality that startled her out of her seat. "My name plate would stop all that. I'd say, 'Look here, sir guard, I'm Prewett.' And there! Problem's solved."

Hermione sighed, feeling a migraine approach.

"Oh, and incidentally, No."

Hermione's fingers froze as they massaged the bridge of her nose.

"What?"

"Oh, I'm sorry" Prewett said, sincerely apologetic, and rose from his desk to stand before her and lean against its edge. He faced her squarely and said, "NO!"

Hermione pushed him away. "I didn't mean I didn't hear you!" After a calming breath, she said, "I meant, what do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean, No, I am sorry, I cannot grant you a favour, Please take a complimentary scone on the way out."

"But why?" Hermione asked, feeling slightly panicked. She needed Poppy at the lunch party! She needed somebody there who did not know what kind of git the father of her baby was.

"Because the complimentary scones are quite delicious," Prewett retorted with a confused frown. "You don't like scones? Are you sane?"

"I meant," Hermione said, audibly grinding her teeth, "why a refusal of the favour."

"Ah." With his quick, awkward movements, Prewett returned to his seat to fold his hands in an official manner. "Well, we adore you, Hermione Granger, we truly do. You've done wonders for the Aurors recruitment program, and increased interest in improving academics tenfold."

"Yes?"

"But, well, we simply can't go granting these sort of favours to anybody, can we? Soon, Finnigan and then Longbottom, and then Brown, and then Wood, and then everybody else who did a fantastic job in the war will be needing a favour or two sooner or later. No thank you, Hermione Granger. We learned our lesson after our compensatory obligation to the Weasley twins after their...er...questioning. No more favours."

She was glad, naturally, to hear that the twins had received something for all the turmoil they had endured, but it was not enough relief to stop the rising disappointment within. With Hermione appearing so distraught, he leaned over the desk with a pleasant, if not pitying smile. "Come now, Miss Granger. It would be terribly unfair, wouldn't it? It's not like the first time I've heard this request. Hundreds of letters from young women are begging for it as well."

That stopped the rising tears—which distantly disturbed Hermione, for she couldn't remember ever being so ridiculously emotional. "Young women?"

"Yes." Now Prewett leaned back in his massive cushioned chair, looking as if he suffered a head ache himself. "All the howlers, Hermione! All the curses! All those silly little girls talking about his silly little handsome face! I mean, I simply don't understand! A self professed criminal! And...and..." He leaned forward. "Between you and me, I don't think he carries himself quite right."

Hermione found no appropriate words for response, and merely nodded in sage agreement. "I suppose it would relieve you then, if I told you I did not want Draco Malfoy's release?"

Prewett sat up as if he had been stabbed with a pin. "What?"

She contemplated standing, walking until she stood before him, and then yelling in his face. Then she decided it was not worth the effort, and Prewett would have appreciated the eccentricity. "I only wanted to know if I could tell my muggle friend, Poppy, about the wizarding world."

Now, although this was a serious request, by comparison to his previous assumption, it hardly seemed a trifle. Prewett, with a pleased air—for he did hate to see women near tears, it was so messy to clean up—he asked for the name. When "Poppy, the muggle milk woman of London" was all she could give, he summoned a book off the shelf and leafed through it. She gave a general description of her friend—laughably small, twenty three, mother of seven old triplets—but found that Prewett shushed her and told her not to give her silly details.

After some silence, he looked up from his book with his finger in the air as if to test the winds. "What's her favourite phrase?"

"What?"

"WHAT'S HER FAV—"

"Oh, all right, all right! It's..." Hermione pondered the words that often fell from Poppy's smart mouth. "Fucking shit balls on spaghetti."

Prewett paused, asked her if she was serious, muttered something about Merlin's beard and women's mouths, and then turned the old book upside down. He did not turn the page, she saw, but he found her nonetheless.

"Ah. Poppy Porpington! Yes. All right. She's safe. I'll take care of the paper work, if that's all."

It was such an abrupt way to end this bizarre meeting that Hermione merely nodded in surprise. Mr. Prewett shook her hand heartily, told her it had been a pleasure, and ran like a galloping, three legged giraffe towards the fireplace. When she had made sure that he had transported elsewhere, and had not, she initially feared, ran smack into the marble, Hermione left the office and made a bee line to the lift.

She found Harry studying the fountain with such an intensity that he jumped when a passerby accidentally brushed against him. For one who ought to have been hiding, she noticed, he was not particularly careful when standing out in the open like that.

Then she remembered the photos. Then she remembered the rumours. Then she remembered that Harry ought to be skewered for his scheming.

But it suddenly seemed such a trivial matter, as she approached her silent friend. Why on earth had she cared for silly rumours, when there were resurrections, pregnancies, and muggle friends to worry about? What had prompted such an overreaction?

_Well_, she thought to herself dryly, _you are pregnant..._

"Harry," she asked him curiously, "have you concocted a spell that somehow makes others believe you are Seamus Finnigan?"

Harry barely turned away from the object of his intense study. "Yes. Just in case. The photographers, after all, do like you quite a bit."

Hermione found herself not even the least bit annoyed. Perhaps, on the flip side of intense reaction, pregnancy gave her the power to forgive things with tremendous ease as well. Whatever the reason, she had felt no need to berate him. Especially when he said, off handedly:

"Feel a bit bad about it, actually. I've heard he and Luna are having public arguments about it." Then, as if he possessed the attention span of an ant, Harry dismissed the matter. He tilted his head, and readjusted the position of his glasses. "Hermione? Is there something wrong with this?"

Hermione, who had seen this ridiculous piece of sculpture many times, merely rolled her eyes with a sigh. "Besides the obvious stupidity, you mean?"

"No," Harry replied, all too aware of her initial indignation upon seeing the worship written on the statues. "I mean, that witch...doesn't she...I mean..."

Hermione had been observing the passing witches and wizards with very little concern. A few of them even met her gaze without any recognition whatsoever. Perhaps all the hubbub about her was dying out...

"Her brains."

"What?"

"Her brains. They're bigger."

Hermione slid her eyes to where Harry was pointing with some embarrassment. She was on the verge of chastising Harry and his undue attentions when she realised something. The witch's...brains...were larger, and, if she was not mistaken, about to fall out of her dress. The immobile eyes, once trained on the wizard, now focused else where, one cheekily shut in a wink. Hermione let her observation fall on the house elf, and was even more surprised to see an addition of a small money bag to his waist as if...well, as if...he were a liberated house elf. The centaur was undeniably changed as well, his proud body separated slightly from the rest, stony eyes trained over the arriving workers with cool indifference.

Well. This was unexpected.

Harry was leaning so far over the edge she feared that he would fall in.

"Here," he said, voice muffled, "I thought as much." He snapped back into proper posture. "We can thank the twins for this," Harry told her with a shake of his head.

"What?" After seven years with them, Hermione was not one to doubt the Weasley twins' caliber. But really. It would take nothing short of a miracle to play a prank on the Ministry of Magic. "How is it..."

Harry pointed to a bronze rectangle, which lay on the bottom of the fountain. The coins and the water made it quite difficult to read, as if whoever had placed it there did not want it flaunted at all. "The Ministry thanks the Improvements contributed by Fred Gideon Weasley and George Fabian Weasley."

Hermione had a sinking feeling she knew exactly what the twins had asked for after their suspicion period had ended. She hadn't, of course, truly liked the original fountain, but this was inexcusable. That fountain had been that way for hundreds of years. There had been tradition in those chiseled figures. One simply did not change that on a whim.

She waited for Harry to drop a few knuts in the water before leaving the Ministry before anybody recognised them. The sun had barely left its bed by the time they emerged from the telephone booth. Hermione, rather sensibly, had transfigured her night gown into something more decent. Without asking, she took liberties with Harry's pyjamas as well, so that he was dressed in a long sleeved green shirt and khakis.

"Why does everybody always want to match things to my eyes?" Harry asked. He was irritable because Hermione insisted they walk, as she was unsure whether apparating and disapparating was good for the baby's health and she flatly refused another ride on the broom. Plus, she had added as she explained her actions, her baby did not have a license, and she didn't want the infant to start on the wrong foot. Harry privately believed all this to be a load of dung, and also thought that, if it were all true, it was still no reason for him to walk every where as if he hadn't a license.

"Because they are nice eyes, Harry, really," she murmured as she jerked his arm to keep up with her brisk pace.

"So? I don't see everybody recommending poo-poo brown things for you."

They stopped on a street corner, just a few blocks away from the complex. Harry looked tremendously silly, walking about with his broom, muttering complaints to himself like an average madman.

"Poo-poo brown? Do you think my eyes are poo-poo brown?"

"Shut up, Hermione, I was just joking."

"I've heard chocolate, or cinnamon, or the rich, brown, earth—"

"Probably Draco's words of complimentary nonsense."

The complex was just in sight before Hermione slowed her pace considerably. "Ah...must tell you something, Harry."

"Okay fine," he sighed, holding her hand as they crossed the street to Hermione's building. "They're the greatest shade of brown on earth. Puts all the other brown eyes to shame. Happy?"

He was ready to open the door when she remained on the stoop. "Wait, Harry...I forgot to tell you something."

Harry groaned. "Please don't tell me we've some place else to visit. At least let us go on the Firebolt."

"No...it isn't about any place we're going..." Hermione bit her lip, and began brushing some nonexistent lint from Harry's shoulder. Harry watched her busy hand with a frown and asked her what the hell was wrong.

"Nothing's wrong," she told him with a nervous smile.

"Nothing wrong? There's nothing on my shoulder, Hermione, stop fidgeting."

"Ah...well, just making sure..." She cleared her throat. "Suppose I asked the twins to come over today?"

Harry made a face, and quickly tried to hide it. "I guess...I guess it was time that we patched things up."

Well. He was happy with that, at least. Hermione took it for a good sign. "Well...suppose just a few more people came as well?"

Harry then sensed danger, and trusted this instinct as it had saved his hide countless times before. "How many 'few more' ?"

"Oh...just...the family..." Harry's jaw dropped. "...a few school mates..." He shut it again, jaw tightening. "...and then a professor or two..." She thought she saw a vein pumping with fretful speed in his neck. "...not to mention a groundskeeper...possibly his wife..." What was that sound? Was Harry grinding his teeth? "...and a muggle."

Harry did not say something for several minutes. She suspected it was because his mouth hurt so much, holding back all the expletives he would have liked to say if she were not his pregnant best friend.

"Oh," she said in her hopefully cheerful tone. "Of course, you as well."

Was it her imagination, or did Harry just gain a twitching eye? Still, there was nothing psychotic of his grip on her hand as he led her up the stairs. Then she wondered if he was just waiting to get her to a private location before telling her off.

He said nothing, only wandering around the flat like a man possessed. Considering it was not an overly spacious space, he finished his work quickly and rejoined Hermione on the couch.

"What?" she asked.

"A dictionary. We don't have one. We need one."

"What for? You have me." That was, she reflected, rather vain of herself, but decided that any word that Harry didn't know, she probably would.

"Yes," he retorted bitingly. "But for all your immense knowledge, you seem to lack the meaning of 'secrecy'. Care to explain that, hmm?"

"Oh," she laughed timidly. "That...well, sort of slipped my mind, as it were, while we were planning."

"We?"

"Oh, Professor Lupin."

"Oh," he mimicked. "Anybody else? Is Queen Mum stopping by for supper?"

"Well, I'm still waiting for the RSVP, but keep you fingers crossed," she replied, matching his sarcasm. Honestly. After half a year's solitude, one would think he'd be overjoyed with this meeting.

Still. He had a point. It would disastrous for everybody to know that Harry Potter was back, for that would bring attention to a boy who very much needed secrecy for Ron's return. Lord knew how much media would be stirred up with Draco Malfoy's release.

Harry was pacing. Hedwig was watching with disinterest from the window sill, and Crookshanks had leapt onto Hermione's lap.

"I mean, Hermione, you know I'd like to, but the reporters will get wind of it in a second, and I—"

"Can you go get Poppy?"

"What?"

"Poppy." Crookshanks began to purr as Hermione absently scratched his ears. "You know. The muggle."

"Oh," he said, sarcasm rising once more. "Is she muggle? Gee, I hadn't noticed it. I wish you had told me."

"Shut up, Harry. I just need to speak to her. If you can bring her here, I'll make sure the others won't see you."

Harry felt his Great and Powerful Wizard's senses tingling. Hermione was up to something. Poo poo brown or chocolate, those eyes were not half as innocent as she'd like others to believe. "Promise?" he asked suspiciously.

"Of course," she replied, with no small offense. "Really, Harry. What are you playing at?"

He gave a roll of his eyes and waved his hand towards door. "I'm not an idiot. No, no I'm not," he reasserted, as though Hermione was ready to contradict and tease him—which she was not planning on...much, any way.

"And, you have to hold up your end of the bargain."

"All ready have," Harry muttered defensively, and heaved himself onto a cushy chair. Hermione opened her mouth to nag him about his new assignment when somebody knocked on the door.

"Go on," he encouraged. "She's bound to need some explanation."

She did. Though Poppy was accustomed to Hermione's bizarre tendencies and strange phrases—such as calling a rude driver a "son of a bludger"—she was not quite used to find herself outside Hermione's door without any memory of arriving there. Hermione opened the door and bent her head slightly to look into Poppy's surprised face.

"Er, hi," she said weakly. "Won't you come in?"

"No other choice," Poppy responded, looking thoroughly befuddled. "I know it sounds strange Hermione, but...I was fixing the girls' breakfast a moment ago...and now I'm here."

"Perhaps it was a complicated meal, and you sought our assistance?" Harry suggested, unaware that the need for magical secrecy was no longer important.

"He magicked you here," Hermione said, with a reproving glare to Harry, who, understandably, was very startled. Hermione waved the baffled muggle to a seat, and moved to the kitchen to find a quick snack.

"Magicked me...? Oh, very funny, Hermione. This is...?"

Harry, remembering the good manners his muggle relations had beaten into him, rose and took Poppy's hand. "Harry Potter, ma'am. Pleased to meet you."

For once, this person did not seem overly concerned with his identity, and shook his hand roughly. Harry let out a subdued "ow," before resuming his loafing position.

"Don't call me ma'am. I'm not over the hill yet," she snapped and settled onto the couch Hermione had just vacated. Crookshanks let out an annoyed meow and leapt off to lay in a sunbeam. "I hate this couch." She had only been to the flat a handful of times before, mostly because Hermione had enjoyed her "normal" flat so much.

Poppy the muggle—or Poppy Porpington, Hermione remembered to add as she made two cups of coffee—was an interesting sort. She was dumpy, and red headed—at least for this month. Hermione guessed she was Tonks-ish, in that sense. Poppy herself couldn't remember her natural born colour, but told her it must have been an indecently mousy shade, for her well shaped eyebrows were dark brown. Her curves, she always confessed, were a pleasant byproduct of pregnancy. The stress of three girls had added premature lines around her eyes, but her perpetual smiles added lines around her mouth as well.

"Yes," Hermione said, setting down a tray of coffee and Ministry-made scones. "Harry, you see, is a wizard. I am a witch. I've always enjoyed our friendship, you know, because you are so blessedly normal."

One had to give her credit. Though Harry believed this muggle's bulging eyes were ready to fall into the coffee, she did not spout disbelief as he expected.

"Oh," was what Poppy said instead. Poppy's brown eyes flitted to Harry. Poppy was having difficult processing this, that much was certain. Hermione knew that her friend was always telling her daughters the insensibility of monsters under the bed or flying witches on Halloween. Even the superstition of a wishbone Poppy refused to believe. "Shouldn't you be a warlock then?" she asked, in a tone that suggested she was merely humouring an obviously mad woman.

"No," Harry said around a scone.

"But if she's a witch..."

"Yes, but Hogwart's isn't an institution for 'warlocks and witches.' Wizards and witches, that's what it says. So, I'm a wizard."

"Ah," she said and chewed at her bottom lip. "You'll forgive me if I'm a mite...hesitant to believe this nice little story—"

Hermione sighed, because Poppy was always admirably rational and she should have expected this reaction. With a shrug, Hermione gestured to Harry who, though he was capable of mind boggling things, merely gestured with an unassuming wave of his hand. Without any difficulty, two sugar lumps appeared above his coffee and fell in with small splashes.

"Fucking shit balls on spaghetti," Poppy gasped. She blinked several times, and then turned to Hermione, as if to confirm what she had just seen. Hermione only smiled encouragingly, and, for emphasis, caused the spoon in Poppy's cup to stir softly with just a twirl of her finger.

"Impressive," Poppy said softly, and Harry smiled harmlessly. Then the young mother turned to him with a censuring look. "But a bit lazy. The kitchen's just a few feet away."

The young man's smile turned into a frown. Poppy turned to Hermione. "Can you do that? What he just did?"

"Well, yes, but I don't like two lumps," Hermione explained with a shrug.

Then, quite unexpectedly—and in Harry's opinion, quite dramatically—she rounded on him.

"So you did magic me here?" Poppy asked, strangely accusatory.

"Yes. Are you just now catching up to the fact?" Something, perhaps because she had forced an unnecessarily painful grip on his hand, made him as pert as possible to this robust female.

"Did you stop to think that I would have been against such action?"

"No, because Hermione asked—"

"Of course, I should wonder if 'stopping to think' is at all included in your gamut of daily activities. Next time you feel the urge to kidnap a mother from her three young daughters, might I suggest some reasonable hesitation on your part?"

"Look, if you want, I'll make sure your daughters are safe and sound by the time you come back," Harry replied testily.

"If it's not too much trouble," Poppy said, tone implying that such a task should not have made him so unfriendly. Of this, Harry was aware, and was ashamed—inwardly, as he refused to give this woman the satisfaction of knowing that she was right—that he had been so thoughtless in his actions. Without explaining to either of the females in the room, he concentrated briefly, in order to freeze time in Poppy's flat, and then glare at Hermione's new friend.

"There."

"There what?"

"There none of your business," Harry retorted, brilliant conversationalist that he was.

"It is my business, you know. The law and mother's natural inclination state that I must have some concern for my offspring."

"If you must know," Harry, said, straightening his posture with a mightily beleaguered expression, "I am arguably the greatest wizard of my generation—"

"Bully for you, but I don't give a damn."

Harry thought he heard a giggle, and narrowed his eyes at Hermione, who pointedly ignored his gaze.

"And," he continued, "that title states that you have little fear on the safety of your abominable brood. I wouldn't harm the hair on their heads in fear titchy termagants would appear on my door step, ready to spout melodrama for which you seem to have a propensity."

"Did you ever have a mother to teach you manners?"

Harry stilled. Hermione held her breath.

"Did you ever have a husband to keep you in line?" Harry shot back.

Then she grimaced as she watched Poppy flinch.

Hermione wondered how each managed to touch the untouchable subjects so quickly. Harry's mother, of course, had never had the opportunity to teach Harry much of anything. And Poppy's former husband had his own way of keeping anybody in line, but Poppy, understandably, did not agree with it.

Harry and Poppy must have understood that their suggestions were grossly inappropriate, for each then sat uncomfortably in silence.

"Cream?" Hermione suggested abruptly, and Poppy nodded. Her rather unsubtle way of breaking the stiffness relaxed Poppy somewhat, so she asked:

"So, are you two incredibly special, or are there more?"

"Oh, more, naturally," Harry said with a shrug. "Gonna eat that?" Poppy, faced with this discovery, was in no mood for scones, and handed it over immediately. "But muggles—that's you—they don't like us, and aren't supposed to know... Come to think of it, why am I telling you?"

It was that moment that they heard Hedwig hoot impatiently from the windowsill. Three pairs of eyes observed a small staring contest with another owl hovering just outside the flat. The grey one, being tremendously larger and pitifully less refined than Harry's pet, gave an impatient snap of his beak. Hedwig, however, refused to budge, and preened herself with maddening apathy.

There was of course, another open window, but Hermione understood the drama. Hedwig felt, quite rightly, that this was her temporary abode, and that she shan't move for anybody. The other owl felt it had every right to fly into any place of residence, as it was a Ministry owl, and had pressing business. The confrontation of fowl ended with a belligerent noise from the grey, who severed the string attached to the note on his leg and flew off with extreme prejudice.

Hedwig, heartily satisfied with herself, flew down to retrieve the fluttering message, and swooped in to drop it on Hermione's lap.

"You told me it was stuffed," Poppy said accusingly to Hermione. The young witch bit her lip. She had, because Hedwig had been sleeping at the time, and it was difficult to explain why one had a pet owl in London.

"Never," said Harry, very much offended by the idea.

Hermione opened the envelope and smiled. "Here we are. I must say, this is conveniently timed."

Hermione handed Poppy a small card, which held her picture, her name, her present address—An Insupportable Couch of Hermione Granger's current residence—and, on the back, so much small print it appeared to be mere grey, coloring.

"It says that you won't have your memory erased if you happen to witness something unusual," Hermione explained, pleased as can be. Harry, angling for a glimpse, had been hovering over Poppy's shoulder

"You're blonde!"

"Oh damn! It's an out of date picture," Poppy sighed. "That's just my luck." She observed Harry's black head obscuring her view, and shoved him out of her way, so forcefully he landed back into his seat.

"Any way," Hermione said, sending an apologetic look to the bewildered best friend. "I wanted to tell you, but I needed permission first from the Ministry."

"Ministry?"

"Ah, yes, Ministry of Magic. It's like yours except...magic-y."

"Magic-ish," Harry corrected.

"Magical," Poppy corrected the both of them. "What's with you? Shouldn't you know?"

"Oy, she's worse than you," Harry laughed to Hermione, who did not join him.

"Any way...ah well, that's it. Harry and I, we met at school. The invitation for the lunch party...you did receive one?" Poppy nodded. "Well, yes, most of the guests are witches or wizard."

"Or half giant," Harry added helpfully. "Though, if you get two half giants together, does that make one whole?"

"Giant?"

"Oh, that's right. There are giants as well. Everybody's really friendly, and nice. But don't accept anything handed to you by the twins. Or Ginny, for that matter—"

"Oh Christ, Ginny'll be here?"

"Well, when I said 'the family,' when should assume that the youngest daughter is included in that group."

Harry, unable to respond with something equally witty, only crossed his arms with a disdainful sniff.

Hermione continued her pieces of advice. "Don't pet anything Hagrid might have brought along...He's the giant...oh and try not to mention the normal stereotypes..."

"Are you trying to tell me how to behave?" Poppy asked, sounding slightly peeved. Harry and Hermione were mightily impressed. She was taking the news rather well. Oh, they knew there was a considerable amount of information to learn. Hermione was thinking of lending Poppy her So and So, a History collection, but doubted Poppy had the strength to carry it home. Harry thought the finer points of Quidditch would do more good to any ignorant muggle, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

Besides, he had more important things to think about. While Poppy darted back home to check the well being off her daughters, Harry helped Hermione set up a picnic on the garden roof. A picnic he knew he would not be enjoying.

"Fuck," Harry said quite loudly, feeling quite unhappy with the present circumstances. Hermione then appeared to be pinching thin air, who gave a whiny "ouch."

She promised him, upon everything that was good, that she wouldn't say a word of his presence as he stood in a corner under his invisibility cloak. It still hadn't done much to persuade him—for what fun was it, he'd like to know, to watch a load of happy people with whom he couldn't speak, and then see even larger quantity of food that could never pass through his lips—but Hermione was superbly manipulative. She had stated, rubbing her slightly round—though Harry was smart enough not to mention that little development—stomach, that it just made her feel better, him being present, and surely he wouldn't want her to feel worse, under all the pressure?

He relented with a martyred sigh, and then Hermione, with an appalling lack of time in between, switched gears and told him in her nastiest voice that if he so much as thought of sneaking off the roof and back into the flat she'd hex him with everything she knew.

And so, wisely, he stayed.

By the time noon had decided to arrive upon the pretty set of picnic tables and benches on the flowery roof, most of the guests had as well.

He reckoned his envy was so great it was likely to interfere with respiration. His breath seemed to be cut short as Remus Lupin, Professor McGonagall, Hagrid, Mrs. Hagrid, Professor Dumbledore, Neville Longbottom, Seamus Finnigan, Poppy Porpington...

He was beginning to think the Queen Mum would arrive, and he wouldn't be able to speak to Her Majesty, since he was confined to invisibility and silence. Then he had no time to ponder a hypothetical, royal scenario, for then came Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, Ginny, Oliver Wood...

Harry did a small double take. Even Hermione was slightly surprised to see him, but shrugged and smiled any way.

Oliver Wood?

Well, that was strange.

Oliver Wood sat next to Ginny.

That was even stranger.

Oliver handed things to Ginny with a distinct air of friendliness.

Then Harry stifled a laugh. Oliver seemed to be under the impression that he was Ginny Weasley's escort to this small together, and Harry thought it somewhat cruel of his former girlfriend to not inform his former Quidditch captain that that idea was just plain lunacy.

Still, everybody looked quite well. The Weasleys, though minus one, were as cheerful and kind as ever—with the exception of Fred and George, who insisted on slipping things into each others' food or drink, and then furtively switching the aforementioned vehicles, so that, in all their demented suspicion, they managed to hex themselves.

Remus was chatting with Poppy; Harry guessed it was an informative conversation, for Poppy occasionally muttered, with round eyes, something about dung and Italian pasta. Hagrid and Olympe, though very attentive to their neighbors, liked to halt all speech and simply stare at each other, an urge that Harry understood to be habitual to those in love, but something he never understood himself.

Hermione was speaking to Dumbledore and McGonagall, looking, if he wasn't mistaken with his view of the back of her head, quite flushed. He didn't want to eavesdrop, but he couldn't help but notice that they spoke as if she were returning. He hoped they were not browbeating her into giving lectures and all that. Hermione was above such Lockhart like silliness. His best friend often tried to draw Seamus or Neville into the conversation, but Neville, with an annoyingly familiar anxiety, somehow always brought the conversation to the paper work at the office, and how come it had suddenly disappeared? Seamus, tetchy that his friend was so determined to ignore the goodness of skiving off work, muttered that Neville had probably eaten it, and so a good portion of the meal was spent pulling Longbottom out of his sullens.

"Do you know, Neville," she said gently, in a coaxing voice Harry instinctively knew would be to future use with her own child, "that I spoke with your employer today?"

"Really? She...she didn't say anything harsh, I hope...?"

"Oh, no," Hermione laughed, "much farther up. I had an unexpected appointment with Mr. Prewett."

"Fine man, fine man," Fred called up from his seat, having overheard the dropped name. "Completely tacky colouring, but I suppose the man can't help it."

"At least, we hope the purple hair isn't done by choice," said George, for the first time acknowledging his twin brother that day.

"Hush you two," Mrs. Weasley said. "Fine way to speak of family."

"Adoptive family," Ginny corrected with what Harry and Hermione interpreted to be a sigh of disgust. Their suspicion was confirmed when she added, "And I wouldn't be surprised if he's purple headed on purpose, just to steal some attention away from his many errors."

"Ginny," Mr. Weasley scolded, but with a distinctly half sincere expression, as if he agreed with his youngest daughter.

Seamus was the only one who cared to explain this shortened conversation. Leaning over his meal, he said in a subdued voice to Hermione, "Mr. Weasley and Mr. Prewett often butt heads on which laws should remain active and which to retire. I believe Ginny's the only one who firmly dislikes Mr. Prewett on account of his political choices."

"Ah," Hermione said, understanding immediately. "And adoptive...?"

"Mr. Prewett's parents were Death Eaters. He had been disowned and, with permission from the late Gideon and Fabian, he took up their name instead. He's a bit like a Ginny's uncle...except he doesn't speak to them, and they don't speak to him. Except for the parents, 'course."

"Of course...do you like him, Seamus?"

Seamus leaned back, being done with the discreet part of the conversation, and shrugged. "I don't know him. I suspect he's rather harsh on the Death Eaters; most of the laws he wants to remain active are mostly punitive...and I can't disagree with that."

Hermione nodded and steered the conversation to less divisive subjects.

Through it all, Harry sat with obedient silence while Hermione, a surprisingly gracious hostess, kept everyone entertained and well fed. She had no answer as to why, some how, all their planned activities had suddenly fallen through, but Harry suspected something or other when Remus hid his smile behind his napkin.

Harry was observing the back of Hermione's head with loud sighs of boredom as they were nearing the end of the rhubarb crumble. She cleared her throat, decided it was too Umbridge like, and stopped.

"Well," she stated with a tone a tad too cheerful for Harry's taste. "While one does not need a reason to bring all you people together other than the loveliness of your company..."

Harry, who had crept up next to Hermione undetected, noticed that Percy, Fred, and George had rolled their eyes at that piece of flattery. Surely, each one of them thought, Hermione hadn't meant them.

"But, I do. Have a reason I mean."

Hermione was pinching at her left hand...a finger, he noticed, that bore a pale band of skin...

"Well, come December, I shall have a new addition to my little family, and I wanted you all to be the first to know."

Harry supposed that while it was not the elated reaction such an announcement would have received if Ron was the father, it was still a good deal better than he expected. Nobody was yelling or berating or anything that silly Hermione might have imagined.

Still, it wasn't such a positive effect that nobody spoke at all.

Fred and George, of course, all ready knew, but were sitting with timidly baffled silence, peering at the others out of the corners of their eyes just to see if anybody had moved yet, and if they could stop this silly game of no mobility and speech. They were bound to wait a while, Harry expected, for people, while not quite horrified, were not thrilled enough to find the proper words of felicitations.

Mrs. Weasley had gone as pale as the table cloth, and she kept turning around to Mr. Weasley, who sat behind her, as if he could do something about it with his newfound authority. Bill and Charlie looked so uncomfortable that Harry nearly laughed, for rarely had he seen them in a situation that they could not easily handle. Percy was frowning, but Harry took this into no consideration, for there was a young man who had no job but a great deal of pink clothes. Of course he was frowning. Ginny, very much like her mother, had gone pale—but then again, Harry noticed, her skin tone and "pale" were not distant cousins—and Oliver looked very much like he wanted to step away from this intimate announcement. His broad shouldered captain's eyes were darting left and right for the correct escape route in the small garden.

Harry longed to say that he was welcome to take a stroll past the hedges that lined the roof top, and to have a merry time on his way down.

Dumbledore, of course, looked as if he had been expecting it—Harry thought that an asteroid could hit the planet and all Dumbledore would do was ask the giant rock if it was injured without a drop of surprise—and McGonagall had put her hand to her mouth, thus concealing whether or not she was smiling or slack jawed in horror.

Remus, who had been especially focused on Hermione when she gave indication of speaking, now slumped in his seat. He looked wryly defeated, if Harry was accurate in his analysis. Poppy, having no idea that Hermione had a male flat mate, let alone a boyfriend somewhere, was mightily shocked, more so than when she discovered the magical half of the nation's population.

"What?"

It was Neville who spoke. Neville Longbottom, bless his heart, didn't quite understand. Seamus broke his gaze on Hermione—whom, Seamus expected, to add something else—to glower at his friend.

"Well just what do you think, Neville?" he asked in irritation. "That she's planning to adopt a crup far into the future and was irresistibly compelled to inform us?"

"But...the only person..." Neville was having an enormously difficult mental struggle, and Fred, unaffected, licked his finger and began picking up the small crumbs on his dessert plate. He only stopped when Molly slapped his hand and Neville continued.

"But the only person was Draco Malfoy..." Neville shrugged and looked to Hermione with hopeless confusion. "So how...?"

"As mind boggling as it is, Neville, my boy," Remus droned in that distinctly amused yet displeased way, "the world is not divided into the villains and the sterile."

That caused a small ripple of laughter that relaxed the others a great deal.

But still. No one had said their congratulations. Which, Harry thought, after overcoming his instinctive dislike for this lot, was understandable. After all, it appeared to them that their darling Hermione had been abducted and hexed, then luckily rescued from the clutches of a mad man, only to find that she was pregnant with his inevitably evil child. He didn't blame them one bit.

He could, however, be irked with them, when he saw just how distressed Hermione was. She was sweating, ever so slightly, and the hand that held the other was possessed with fine tremors. Couldn't they see that, as strong as she was, in this condition she needed their support, be it false or genuine? Couldn't they see what complete asses they were being?

"I think," Harry said stiffly, pulling off the cloak before Hermione trembled any more, "that that's wonderful news, Hermione, and I hope that you name me god father." Another shocked silence ticked by, and Harry, in his boredom, couldn't help but count those ticks.

...fifty eight...

...fifty nine...

...sixty...

...two...

...three...

He smiled when he landed squarely on two minutes and thirty as Mrs. Weasley rose to give Hermione a hug.

He didn't want to, of course, steal Hermione's baby's thunder by up and popping out of nowhere like that, but really, this lunch party was full of tactless baboons.

All right, so that was a bit harsh. Harry suspected he was ready to call anybody, even Dumbledore, the worst sort of insult when it came to comforting Hermione. If he were any other person, he doubted he would have fabricated a smile, as the Weasleys were now doing, just to comfort her. Harry thought that it was generous of Hagrid and Mrs. Hagrid to congratulate her so heartily, and pretend that they were happy the Malfoy line was continuing. He suspected that it had taken a great deal of thoughtfulness to conjure their brittle smiles, and the only thing he had to complain about was how long it had taken for that "conjuring" to take place.

Much well wishing and embraces soon followed, eyes forcefully staying on Hermione's face rather than Harry's aloof one. He stood by his friend with crossed arms, almost like a guard against any one who displeased his pregnant friend.

"Knew all along!" Fred was happy to brag, not at all bothering to rise from his seat.

"Even about that thin one, over there," George added airily, pointing to Harry.

"And you said nothing," Percy said, returning to his seat after a stilted congratulatory handshake.

"Why, Perce," Charlie teased, "I would think you're used to ignorance by now. Ouch." It hadn't really hurt, Harry estimated, that cuff from Molly, but suspected Charlie said so to give satisfaction to his mother.

Molly Weasley, after overcoming her initial shock, looked as if Christmas had come early. She was already babbling excitedly about the knitting and all the old things she had saved from her brood's infantile years. She hadn't, Harry noticed with a frown, given him so much as a glance. The adults in general looked rather pleased as well, as if they couldn't think of any other eighteen year old who was more suited for motherhood.

Harry was nothing short of relieved. While he had ranted and raved of the importance of secrecy, he couldn't help but feel an enormous weight lifted from his shoulders. He liked being among his own friends again. He liked meeting their gazes directly without worrying. He liked having the chance to eat what was left of the lunch party.

Seamus frowned when Harry shoved him down the bench and began heaping more food onto Seamus' abandoned plate.

"Hey Harry."

"Hello Seamus. How are you?"

"Oh fine. Luna's magazine said you were in Antarctica, battling garflaps."

"Which are...?"

"Hell if I know."

He wasn't truly interested in conversation, with hunger gnawing at his insides, but listened to Seamus' update with mild interest. He was aware of course, of Remus and Hagrid and the Weasleys' concerned glances towards him. Dumbledore merely gave him a nod before resuming a conversation with McGonagall, who, if he wasn't mistaken, had the pinched expression of a displeased professor. The offspring of the Weasleys were, for the most part, annoyed with him, the youngest especially. But Harry felt Ginny had no right to look so irate with Oliver Wood there beside her. Neville continued to open his mouth as if he wanted to speak, but also continually decided against it. Harry sensed that, as soon as the most opportune moment arrived, he would receive a telling off of historical proportions. It was just a matter from whom and when would he be cornered.

Only Poppy was really indifferent to Harry's sudden appearance, for she had just seen him this morning, and thought his mode of entrance lacked finesse and punctuality.

"Porpington," he heard Remus repeating with mild interest.

Poppy said yes with a roll of her eyes. "You see why I'm not to eager to hand it out. I've no idea how Hermione managed to find out."

"That's an old family, is it not?" Dumbledore said, with definite curiosity.

Poppy shrugged. "I really don't know...stop that," she told the twins abruptly, who were attempting to add something to Charlie and Bill's drinks. "Do you want me to separate you two?"

"I beg your pardon?" Fred asked, with his utmost innocence. George glared, not liking to be chastised so publicly, but withered under her gaze nonetheless.

"I have triplets just like them," Poppy told Remus with a sigh.

"Just like us?" George said with surprise. "Dad, you've been dallying? Ouch!"

Mrs. Weasley had given her son a rather bruising reason to stop his impertinence.

"I meant, I have three completely unruly little girls," she told Lupin. Then Poppy, like all proud parents, began gushing. "But they're absolute geniuses, you know. Half the time, I can't punish them because I can't prove anything they've done wrong."

"Yes, something for Hermione Granger may look forward to. I was her professor, at one point, and she always had the maddening habit of infallibility. With her baby's genealogy, I pity the teachers who will be burdened to teach them."

Hermione was ready to thank him for that compliment when the sun went out.

The company fell silent as they heard loud flaps, heavy, dull beats of flight that drowned out the tinny sounds of the city. They raised their eyes, and saw a large owl, descending onto their table. Turning, Hermione noticed another owl making its way to their picnic...and then another came into view...and then another...

Conversation had fallen into a dead stop as five ministry owls landed on the table, each quite heedless of the food, and breathing heavily from their speed. One sat by Arthur Weasley, who had ripped off the message with barely a glance at the tired bird. Two had arrived for Neville and Seamus, and one waited expectantly for Dumbledore to scribble a reply.

And one waited before Hermione Granger, waiting with a puzzled tilt of his head as she refused to untie the message.

"Hermione," Harry prompted, watching the others' expression grow dark as they read the news. Hermione had raised her trembling to the animal's leg, but faltered at the last moment. Harry, impatient, reached forward and snatched the envelope and sent the indignant messenger away.

His eyes skimmed the official beginning, and then focused on the gist.

_...if you have any information on the suspect's whereabouts, please inform the Ministry as soon as possible..._

"That bastard," Harry swore, already rising from his seat with the others. He tossed the folded parchment on the table with disgust.

"What's happening?" Poppy asked, perfectly oblivious to the importance of their messages. Harry had just risen from his seat when she reached forward and latched onto his arm. "What is it? Why's Hermione looking so ill?"

"None of your business," Harry said tersely, shaking his arm free from her grip in a rush of annoyance. It was the same ill calculated irritation that caused him to, before she could open her mouth in censure, send her away with a flick of his wand. Vaguely, he guessed he should have felt bad about that, but he assumed that whatever conversation was to ensue was not fit for the ears of an ignorant muggle.

"What are you doing?" Neville wanted to know.

"I'm coming with you," Harry curtly answered.

"Harry, you don't work for the Ministry," Arthur reminded him with a frown.

"I don't care, I'm going." Before anybody could protest, Harry had already disapparated with a thundering crack, leaving no room for argument. Arthur hurriedly kissed his wife good bye before following suit. Neville and Seamus had the good grace to thank Hermione for the meal and wish her another congratulations before hurrying out of sight. She felt the feather light pats on her arm in what she assumed to be comfort, and turned barely in time to see Dumbledore disappear from sight.

Her eyes swung round on the discarded letter on the table. She did not want to read it. She did not want to know about one more, horrible thing after the many, many horrible things she already knew. She did not want to think Draco would do that.

Remus thought it wise to see to Dumbledore, and signaled worried McGonagall to do the same. Oliver cleared his throat and apologetically took his leave. Hagrid all but burst with fury, and Olympe swiftly made their exit before he uttered something disturbing in the presence of ladies. The Weasley boys, too embroiled in their own anger and worry to think of politeness, had vanished almost as soon as their father had, despite their mother's requests for a wait.

It left the two red haired women, who were always there for her comfort.

But she didn't want comfort.

It was supposed to be such a promising day, she lamented to herself with stilted detachment. It was supposed to be so good.

"Are you all right, Hermione?"

She shook her head as she walked to the roof entrance. It was not a negative. It was a vain attempt to clear the cloying thoughts from her heavy head.

He hadn't escaped, had he? Not really. It wasn't as if...as if he would leave her, alone...

Numbly, she was aware how uncivilised it was to leave them with the full table, the cloth and napkins fluttering indifferently by a chilly breeze. But there was no will to return, to retrieve her fallen duties, to see their pitying expressions. She could not pretend indifference at the moment, and would face those cautiously inquisitive faces later.

Measured steps eventually took Hermione to her room, where she sat against the headboard with an immense blankness in her mind. Each time she ventured upon an emotion—anger, hurt, fear, worry—it died away before its birth. It was useless, to want to feel so much, and yet know so little. She would wait, she decided with a coolness she did not truly feel. She would wait and learn before she proceeded with any sort of action.

She hugged her knees tightly as Ginny and Mrs. Weasley softly murmured their good byes through the door. It was unlocked. She could not bear the thought of locking them out, locking out the only family she had left, locking out any possible returns from those suddenly lost...

He would return.

Of that she was hopeful. Not confident—she didn't dare possess Draco's confidence—but she would remain hopeful.

It was supposed to be such a good day.

xoxox

"Fucking bastard," Harry swore brutally, and the twins nodded in agreement. Charlie was with them as well, though he was no where near as virulent as the younger boys.

They had just arrived in Number Twelve, sitting in the ancient furniture as they tried, in vain, to find something to eat.

"I can't believe—after everything Hermione's done—" Harry was muttering as he sat with a sigh on the table. It had occurred to them, of course, to stop by the Burrow for a bite. But none of them, not even the suddenly returned Harry of questionable morals, had heart to cause ruckus and awake the others at three o'clock in the morning.

Charlie was shaking his head, rubbing absently at his eyes. "I don't understand. True, they were wrapping up the evidentiary search. But it would have taken a few more weeks to process and categorize the evidence. Why would he leave now?"

"Because he's a bloody imbecile," George answered easily, finally relinquishing his greed to give them all some sweets from his own pocket. Vaguely, Harry knew, it would not be wise to consume them without some inspection, but swallowed the anonymous candy any way.

Charlie had waited five minutes after Harry had finished chewing his before unwrapping the confection. "If only Hermione had told him, before she told us—"

"She did," Harry interrupted, sliding from the table to properly sit in a chair. "He's just a heartless bastard who obviously did not give a damn."

"She'll be monitored," Fred said quietly, folding his candy wrapper in smaller and smaller squares. "You just wait—there'll be a wizard on her corner, a charm on her door. They're probably watching her already."

"Damn," George muttered, running his hand through his hair and reminding Harry, so unexpectedly and jarringly, of Ron. Almost as if he were fearful of Hermione's reaction. "Damn. Hermione will hate that. You know she will."

"She hasn't got a choice, has she?" Charlie was admirably reasonable. "She hasn't got a right to demand any body off the public streets—in Muggle London, no less."

Harry was shaking his head dismally. "I had such faith in Alfred Teeternuk." The others gave him a strange look. "I think it's Italian."

He did not want to mention how he knew just how strong Draco had become, and how that criminal was in the habit of moving guards without the aforementioned guards ever noticing. But honestly. He had no inkling that the prick would go and escape. He had no reason to, after all.

A belated thought occurred to him. "How did he do it?" he asked the Weasleys. "No wand."

The twins shrugged, not terribly concerned, when Bill strolled through the entrance and answered.

"You won't believe it. I'm not even sure Dad has the right of it." Bill, with his newly healed arm, shoved Charlie to the side to sit.

"Well, I'm so glad you're not hesitating to tell us," Fred commented.

"Yes," Charlie added, "that might have been terribly irritating."

"Draco," Bill said loudly, cutting off George before the twin could have provided an input. "has been having hard boiled eggs for breakfast."

There ensued silence.

"Oh!" Harry exclaimed with ridiculous realisation, smacking his palm to his forehead. "Oh, that explains everything! Malfoy had hard boiled eggs, and then he slipped through the air tight security system of the Ministry! That's so incredibly obvious, I don't know why anybody thought he might have stayed."

"Harry," Bill said pleasantly, studying him with narrowed eyes. "In your extended absence, did you forget something?"

"If you're going to say something stupid about me forgetting my scar..." Harry began, rolling his eyes.

"No," Bill interrupted, still smiling benignly. "I mean, have you forgotten the fact that I am within the power of beating into a bloody pulp anybody who erroneously decides to cheek me?"

Harry contemplated this while the others snickered. "I might have...misplaced that fact," he conceded with feigned aloofness.

"The shells," Bill continued, crossing his arms and leaning on the table. "The bastard kept the shells. And then he ground them. And then he stored it. And then he used it."

"For paint?" Fred hazarded. "He used the eggs to make paint! And then he disguised himself! And then he tricked the guard—"

"And then it's discovered I have the stupidest twin ever!" George finished, mocking his brother's growing enthusiasm. "You stupid, stupid man. You don't make paint out of egg shells. You use the yolk and the white."

"Yes," Bill agreed, privately wondering why his younger brother came to this useless information. "The fine powder derived from egg shells is, as you all should know, harmful for inhalation."

If anybody hadn't known that little known fact, nobody indicated their ignorance, intimidated by Bill's knowing attitude.

"Somehow—some say he has considerable charm—he convinced the guard to enter, or at least, the guard allowed him to come close enough. Either way, it's not quite certain whether the guard will live. They say there's eight ounces or so of powder in his lungs."

"So shall hard boiled eggs be taken off the menu?" George asked curiously.

"There must be twenty wizards working on that serious dilemma," Charlie assured him solemnly, causing Harry to smile.

"So what now?" Fred asked Bill. "What does dad say?"

"He says go to sleep. There'll be another meeting tomorrow—er well, today. After lunch. Prewett has some words to say—"

"Or a million," said Charlie with a roll of his eyes. "Met him yet, Harry?"

"Haven't had the pleasure quite yet. Why?"

"Avoid it," George advised. "He's barking mad. Sensible enough when it comes to running the realm, but otherwise a total nutter."

"Hermione never mentioned that," Harry murmured to himself.

"Speaking of which," Bill sighed, straightening, not realising he had just spouted a pun. "How's she doing?"

"Preggers," Fred informed him with a dismal sigh.

"Yes, I gathered as much when she said so. I mean how's the girl doing emotionally?"

Charlie frowned slightly and turned to the twins. The twins shrugged and the answer was sought for in Harry.

Who straightened uncomfortably. "What d'you mean?"

"I mean," Bill continued with a raised eyebrow, "that the father of her baby has recently escaped. Surely you see the possible depression?"

"I say good riddance," George said helpfully.

"How fortunate that what you say matters," Charlie murmured, finally realising what Bill was saying. "You don't suppose she...she'll miss the bugger?"

"Of course she will," Bill snapped, looking at Charlie as if he had grown another head. "She's spent half a year with him. Some partiality will form."

"The stay wasn't voluntary," Fred pointed out.

"It was voluntary in episodes," George corrected sensibly.

"Even if it wasn't," Harry interrupted brusquely, "she'd have some concern now. She'll want her baby to have a father, of course."

"Of course," Bill agreed. "So, how did she react?"

The other four exchanged slightly guilty looks, and it was Fred who, after a beat of silence, answered decisively.

"Motionlessly."

"Emotionlessly?"

"No, motionlessly...without motion."

"Are you certain?"

"Well..." Fred rubbed the back of his neck and looked to the others for support. They gave none too encouraging looks and he continued. "Well, she was very still in her chair when we left."

"When you left," Bill repeated.

"Yes," George spoke up, as apparently, Fred was losing speech. "I noticed she barely blinked. It's better than fainting, I suppose."

"Mum and Ginny stayed with her then," Bill assumed hopefully.

"No," Charlie disagreed. "No, I stopped by the Burrow an hour later to talk to Perce, and they were there."

"So..." Bill said, rising, "Hermione, abducted, rescued, impregnated, and now abandoned, was left in her flat with nothing but left over picnic and raging hormones?"

Another beat of silence.

"Yeah, that sounds about right," George agreed after digesting Bill's question.

"No," Fred disagreed. For a faint moment, Harry hoped that Fred knew of somebody who had stayed to comfort his best friend, but Fred only said, "If you think about it, the impregnating came before the rescuing, right?"

Bill raised his gaze heavenwards, as if seeking divine patience, not unlike his mother. Harry hated to think that age had anything to do with wisdom—feeling, not arrogantly but with experience, that he possessed more intelligence in his pinky than some of the adult witches and wizards—but Bill, being eldest, knew a great deal more than any of them at present. Especially concerning the inner workings of women.

Harry stepped forward quickly to dam any words of reprimand. "I see what you're saying. I'm on my way."

"Then why are you still here?" Bill demanded sharply, and Harry resisted the urge to salute. Instead he bade them good bye.

When he returned to the flat, he had expected to creep in, tiptoe to her bedroom to check for tear stains, and quietly open the cupboards for a snack.

Harry returned to a brightly lit flat, scrubbed clean and arranged to its original state. He moved cautiously to Hermione's room, where sounds of commotion could be heard.

On the tip of his tongue sat a "Shouldn't you be sleeping?" routine, but he swallowed it the second he spied Hermione's stubborn expression. Something had upset her. Something besides Draco's underhanded escape was troubling her immensely.

And he didn't need to observe her set jaw to assume this. Two trunks sat open in her bed, and a partially filled. Crookshanks sat in one, watching the new intruder with complacency.

"Hermione," he began uncertainly as the witch continued to fold her clothes in a brisk, tetchy manner. A new, stupid thought occurred to him. "Hermione," he repeated, voice raised. "You're not going after him, are you?"

"Don't be daft," she snapped, now gathering the books. "I've acquired an occupation."

"You have?"

Her brown eyes flashed to him dangerously. "Are you suggesting that I cannot?"

For some reason—perhaps male instinct—Harry raised his hands in surrender and backed away into the door frame. "Not at all. Get two occupations, if you're so keen on it."

From his safe distance, Harry observed her. She looked sane enough. Her pyjamas were a cute, frilly affair, with pink frogs and butterflies against white cotton. Her hair was pulled into a tight, no nonsense bun, and her brows were furrowed with formidable determination.

Still, despite her unspoken intimidation, Harry felt Bill's invisible hand on his shoulder, pushing him forward in evidently unnecessary concern.

"Are you all right?"

"Oh I'm fine, Harry," she answered carelessly, lifting a limp cat out of the trunk. "It's you I'm worried about."

Well. This was familiar. She couldn't fix her own damages so she had charitably moved to his own.

"Really."

"Yes. Since I'll be living at Hogwarts, I wonder where you should live—"

"Don't worry, I've got Number Twelve—wait, what?"

"I've decided to accept Dumbledore's offer to be the new potions professor." Harry gaped. Hermione added coolly, "Perhaps a congratulations is in order?"

"What? Oh, yes, congratulations, best of luck—why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you suddenly going back?"

"What a strange question. I haven't been back in ages." She shut both trunks with finality, and the two jumped when one emitted plaintive caterwauling. Crookshanks, it seemed, had been evicted from one trunk only to sleep in the other. With an apologetic expression, Hermione freed her cat and leveled a glare at Harry, as if it was his fault her pet had experienced imprisonment.

Just who, he wanted to know, decided that mood swings was a helpful trait in pregnant women? Why not something like increased speed or super vision? Why did the universe deem it necessary to make expecting women superbly emotional?

"But today, at the picnic," he insisted, moving to sit on the bed. "You spoke as if you weren't going to accept it."

"Have you been eavesdropping?" she demanded suspiciously.

"No. I've been shoved under an invisibility cloak with no planned activities except breathing and listening."

"It might have helped if you dropped one or the other," she retorted, and Harry rolled his eyes. He was never having children. Ever. Or, maybe, he and his future wife would adopt. Yes. Adoption was a sure fire way to avoid demented exercises of anger.

"What made you change your mind?" he still ventured heedlessly.

"What?" Hermione had moved her trunks outside her door, and began to make her bed in earnest. "What are you talking about?"

Harry helped her with the tangled bed sheets. "I mean, something must have a occurred to change your mind."

"In case you've failed to notice," Hermione said, tone so sharp it could only belong to a future professor, "a great many thing has occurred today."

"But Draco leaving wouldn't have changed your mind," he pointed out reasonably. "If anything, you'd want to stay put, in case he'd come for you..." Harry studied the neat room. "He didn't already, right?"

"Oh god, Harry," Hermione sighed, quitting the room for the kitchen. Crookshanks and Harry loyally followed. "He's not stupid. There's handful of witches out there, spying on this flat."

This was news to Harry. "Really?"

"Yes. They decided females would be more sensitive, less...interested." She reached into the freezer and pulled out a carton of ice cream. "As if any male would be watching a ruined, pregnant, fat witch with any romantic interest." The carton slammed on the table with bitterness.

Harry said nothing as he peered surreptitiously outside the darkened windows. He hadn't survived hell and high water to fall in the trap of "Am I fat?" He may not have had as much experience as Bill, but he knew a lose-lose situation when he heard one.

To distract her, he changed his tone as he sat beside her with his own spoon. "Are they young witches?"

"I don't know if they're—oh god, Harry!" she exclaimed instantly transferring any disgust from herself onto him. "You're not thinking of picking up women from the troop outside my window!"

"No," he said, unconvincingly. "Of course not. Stupid idea."

"Men!" she declared to the ceiling, somehow fighting away his spoon with her own without her looking. Hmm. Perhaps women were granted with special eye sight—to protect their food—when stumbling into pregnancy.

"Tell me what happened?" he requested politely, spoon sliding sneakily past hers.

"Between this afternoon and right now?"

Harry nodded.

"No."

"But something did happen," he guessed.

"Of course."

"With somebody's whose name rhymes with bastard-aco?"

"Oh Harry," she drawled, "You should have been a poet."

"And yet I'm content with being your friend," he replied in the same artificially saccharine voice. "When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow...today. It's...it's a last minute decision. I want to be done with it before I change my mind again."

Harry nodded. Disturbed by his silence, she pushed the carton to him in apology. Then she asked, "You don't...well, you don't mind, do you? I know I should have consulted you first, but I just—I had to prove that I—"

"Hermione, I've been living on my own for a while. You needn't worry for my sake." She nodded with a small smile, but then frowned when Harry, without provocation, began to laugh loudly.

"What?" she wanted to know, pulling the ice cream away grumpily.

Harry simply shook his head. "You. A teacher."

"What's so funny about that?"

"It's just...you're going to be the Hot Professor. Please take notice of the capital letters."

"What?"

"Oh come on. It's so obvious. You're going to be the new Hot Professor."

"Was there ever an old one?"

"What? Professor Hooch never sent you into romantic swoons?"

"Shut up Harry."

"I'll admit, I've sometimes fancied becoming the Hot Professor myself. Can you imagine? HP becoming the HP."

"This is definitely not a valid conversation."

"Once you dwell upon it, marks in Potions will either go through the roof or plummet."

"If you are questioning my ability to educate—"

"I predict an extraordinary increase in attendance. But an appalling lack of attention. Well, on potions any way. I wager a good many eyes will be focused on your—"

"Harry, how utterly juvenile of you."

"You don't believe me? You don't think there'll be a number of supposedly intelligent boys who will always ask for your assistance? Who'll need you to come and check their potions? Who'll stand disturbingly close to you, and practically leap for joy when you give them detention?"

"Harry! None of that—it's not going—you're being juvenile."

"You said that already. Good. Better get used to repetition. Tell all the jail bait that no means no."

"Harry!" she bit out, cheeks flaming. He liked to think that yes, prim Hermione was a bit embarrassed by his words—truthful words, he was sure—but also, pregnant Hermione was a bit flattered.

Now disgusted with the dessert, she shoved the ice cream in his direction and moved to give Crookshanks an early breakfast. She did not want to sleep.

Draco might come to her again if she slept.

xoxox

**and some days last longer than others. **

**Winston Churchill**


	16. My baby takes the morning train

**My world has changed dramatically since the last update.**

**I have recently discovered Dairy Queen's pumpkin pie flavored blizzard. God bless her majesty.**

**Also, I didn't vote (it doesn't make a difference in my solid Bush state). P. Diddy is going to kill me. Good bye, y'all. Nice knowing you.**

**Okay, in the event that you happen to be checking my reviews page, perhaps for the sake of making sure your own review made it there safely, kindly do not pay attention to Dastardly Snail's signed review. Not because I hate that reviewer or anything–and I will deal with you in my personal response–it's just that, well, it gives information I had hoped to avoid giving in the past chapter. I can't forbid you from writing her or flaming "her" story, because THAT would be censorship, and I am totally against censorship. But...if you feel that you must contact the plagiarist out of a sense of moral outrage, duty, or just because your lur-hurve me (stop rolling your eyes! It's possible that people may love me! It's just FINDING those people that's the tricky part...), all I can ask of you is to please write your communication with perfect spelling and perfect grammar. Somebody needs to set an example for the floundering writer.**

**I, for one, have found a more useful, and productive way of channeling my anger and frustration over the entire mishap. Hunting...er...GUIDING Mary Sue writers. Their stories are so...um...interesting, that you want to pull your own hair out. So, instead of just hysterically flaming, I felt it my duty as a fellow writer to give a few pointers.**

**But, HONESTLY! If you don't want constructive criticism (all right, so I was MINORLY sarcastic in my reviews!) don't say, "Feel free to leave comments" or "Read and Review" or "This is my first fic, so go easy on me" (that last one, I believe, is a request of a bonafide pansy). Don't send me a huffy email just because I'm doing as you asked!**

**And, if you find yourself being exceptionally angry because of plagiarism, or a certain somebody's twisty plot line, you should use your passion for good use as well. It's easy to find the Mary Sue writers. They generally have an entire survey as their bio, as if we cared that their eyes, hair, and weight exactly match those of their leading lady character...**

**Bad soap box! Sneaking under me like that! Bad, bad, bad soap box!**

**Oh, and just to be fair, this chapter includes both Draco-ness and Ron-ness. Apologetically long, as well.**

**Kou Shun'u**: I'll just make a complete ass of myself (right, like it's such a rare occurrence!) And assume that you'll read this chapter, so I can respond to your review of Bloody Brilliant. I'm glad you found it funny. It's not that I totally and completely despise Mary Sues–it's just that I hate the unoriginal and badly written ones. I can love anything if it's well written. So, any who, I took your criticism in stride and tried (take note of the word, I don't know if I actually succeeded!) to make it slightly better. Yes, Tonks is a sucky character, but it would have been too cliché if Dumbledore or The Ultimate Mary Sue to come along. Thanks, though, for telling me the truth. I'll always appreciate that, even if Mary Sue writers or Reina Haricorizon don't!

**Monkeystarz**: I'll make an ass of myself once more and assume you'll see this. Thanks for your review of The Wonderful Weasleys. I'm glad you "adored" it, because we all know the importance of that word!

**missb**: Funny, I read a book once, where the leading male character called the leading female character "Miss Bee..." Right, so that's not remotely related to the subject...

Any ways, I thank you for your nice reviews. I know it's long, but I can't help it. I'm sure my rambling author's responses don't help much either. Thanks for your other reviews as well!

**nikethana**: Yes, well, I suppose you can't win over everybody:0)

Thank you, though, for your honest opinion. I'm sorry you feel that way, and I'm sorry that, despite your apparent dislike of the fanfiction, you were somehow forced into reading the whole mess any way.

While long fics can be annoying, I can't help but describe things as I see fit. If I were to shorten my chapters or the fic in general to please my reviewers, I would feel like a heartless butcher.

Hm, pointless rambling? I'm assuming you meant the conversations or incidents not related to the Draco-plot? Well, I know they're not totally necessary, but I find it quite unrealistic to have every single thing in the Harry Potter Universe related to that Adonis. There is more to Hermione's life than love, you know.

I don't know how to answer that "i still don't have a clear idea of how hermione is as a character in this story!" part. Because, you know...hint, hint...she's the main one.

Just kidding, I'm naturally sarcastic. I suppose I have changed her somewhat from book-Hermione, but that's to be expected. They've all grown up, gone through war, lost friends and family, been horribly traumatized...it's only natural that they're not the same happy-go-lucky, book-obsessed, immature students of before. If you're wondering what TYPE of character she is, I can only guess that you mean which mold does she fit into. Independent-hear-me-roar woman, Someday-my-prince-will-come-woman, or what not. I find those stereotypes slightly irritating. A woman can be a bit of everything, I believe, and if such a combination confuses people, or makes it difficult for those people to place her in a certain category, then I believe this type of woman is called Normal.

Oh yes! A compliment! My self-esteem is saved! Enough silly ranting...I'm glad you liked the dialogue. I've heard that the plot is somewhat confusing or not clear enough before, but I don't feel that I should change that. I don't like handing the plot to the readers on a platter. I don't like being so open. I like giving it bit by bit, until the very end, when it all makes sense.

Well, it's your prerogative to hate the last five chapters. I suppose this means, everything before Draco is revealed for the heartless bastard his sequence is all right; when he and Hermione were living in a dreamy, fake world, the story was much better?

I'm not one of those writers who believe "Love conquers all." That's why, I guess (I'm guessing, and assuming, and supposing a lot, because, sadly, clairvoyance has skipped my generation), you find a lack of romance in the plot. Kisses and hugs and declarations fall short with me. There has to be other motivations, other influences, other rational explanations for what happens in the end. Not "Draco loved her, she loved him, happily ever after." It's not about Draco and Hermione. It's simply about Hermione, and all the things that matter to her; thus my categorization of Hermione and then All. And, despite how handsome he is, Draco is not the only thing that matters to her. Then, you may argue, why is the category is ROMANCE and general? Well, that's simple to answer as well. Draco's convincing of Hermione to obey her heart rather than her instincts was the essential romance. The General categorization includes the parts of Hermione's life that do not include mind boggling sex.

I don't see how my story can be exhaustingly long, filled with pointless rambling, and yet still not well described, however. It's almost contradictory, one could say. Perhaps you care to elaborate?

Thanks again for your honest review.

**LatentBeauty**: Hi again!

Thanks, for "absolutely loving" it. And I'm sorry that you have to be sorry about the plagiarism. The world would be ever so much people if such people were shot...er, with rubber bullets, I meant, of course. No blood thirsty author here...

Of course I'll continue. I'd continue whether the all of you were yelling at me to stop. I just can't help it!

**Delovely**: The joke ends with everybody laughing. I'm glad I've solved that mystery for you. Oh, and correction, the hamster SINGS, and it's the fish who talks...well, in joke-world any way...

You better stop using exclamation points! I hate them! I never want to see one again! Grr! Exclamation points are evil!

Thanks!

**Brandybuckbeak**: Hello!

I was minorly confused by your penname, because I wasn't aware that Buckbeak was a last name...until it hit me. My favorite hobbit?

If you don't understand, and your name is Brandy or it's an inside joke or you're extremely fond of that alcohol...just ignore my silly little assumptions. I'm just way too into books to have normal, decent conversations.

Oh, no, I didn't take your "finally gotten through" comment with any offense whatsoever. I'm painfully aware how egotistically long my experiment has gotten. In fact, if I wasn't the one who had written this, I would have cursed the writer of this, for writing something so long, if I had the attention span and dedication to read the entire written mess...

Did that make sense? Oh well. Very little of what I say or write actually does.

What? Twists and Turns? In MY story? Never!

Ah yes...the forbidden hot professors. Hot Professors, though, of Hogwarts must be especially noticeable, for any physical attributes would be hidden by the robes...er...well, can you tell I've put a lot of thought into this? Totally pathetic, I am. Switching my sentence structures, I also am.

Oh dear, that's the last thing I need. Another guilt trip over one more insane reviewer...oops, did I say insane? I meant unique. Definitely unique.

All euphemisms aside, I'm glad you enjoy my story so much, I hope you won't be disappointed with this chapter, oh, and, try to fend off eccentricity as long as possible.

**expoeraser**: Yay, good to hear from you again!

Well, both Poppy and Harold Gerald Prewett the First were merely interesting characters to have around, but as I lay in my bed last night, I decided to give them purpose. So, to answer your question, they will contribute to the plot, either in very important or very minuscule ways! I hope you like the chapter!

**Jaid Ziaen**: Do you know? I bet I wouldn't have been the last picked for all the games in PE if my father had taken me fishing more. But alas. It appears I only succeed in literary terms.

Good enough for me! I hated team sports!

There is no need to apologize for Draco's hotness, just as there is no need to apologize for Ron's lovable-ness (I love how I subtly slipped that in there!)

I take it you don't normally love the Harry's in other stories? Or just in the actual books? Either way, I'm glad the one I've written is so special!

I was thinking of dropping my habit and start doing bad, mediocre work, but, since you said 'Please,' I'll keep up this "good" stuff.

Enjoy!

**loverlydaisy520**: Yay! You continue to review! I was afraid that my philosophercerizing (yes it's a real word! Well...in my world, any way!) had scared you away!

They say imitation is the highest form of flattery. If that's somebody's version of complimenting, I wish I was the worst writer in the history of writer-dom. At least, that way, my crap stayed my crap. But, aw, thanks for the sympathy.

I'm glad you love Harry's "nonchalant sarcasm." I just love him in general. Okay, that's enough of my silly crush...Resurrected hatred for Draco? Whole lotta resurrections going on, huh? Next thing you know, I'll have Jesus up and walking about...

How I wish I could kill him. If only I hadn't promised. Damn, damn, and, oh, by the way, damn. At least I know somebody else wishes for his potentially beautiful and definitely forbidden demise.

The Minister of Magic was just as the twin (I can't remember which one! Isn't that awful?) described him. Barking mad. But hey, at least I know there isn't another purple haired, gimpy, hamster owning, mathematically challenged Minister of Magic. Well, I hope there isn't another one...that would be supernaturally coincidental...

There should be a club, by the way. Of people born in the last century. You (forgive me if I assume that you were born after 1899), me, Harold Gerald Prewett the First...yes, it shall be very exclusive.

Hmm...how long will it be? I'm actually kind of glad nobody's asked me that question yet. Because...I don't know. I will try to avoid at all costs more than 30 chapters. In fact, I don't even like the sound of 25 chapters. Perhaps 20, but I highly doubt I'll be able to make that happen. After all, it is always my initial goal to have 7 chapters (it's my favorite number in the whole wide world...but, hush, don't tell the other numbers that) and, clearly, I have surpassed that optimistic point. So, I hope that answers your question. Probably not...

Also, thanks for your review of Bloody Brilliant. I don't mean to "diss" them, I just...want to show them a better way... It's sad though. One mary sue writer has read it, and she missed the point entirely. I guess the only way to reach them is to draw a really big, really unsubtle picture...

Have a good day too!

**Paul is dead**: For some reason, I always feel a touch morbid writing your alias. Can't help but wonder why...

About Hermione's gift to Harry...well SOMEBODY has to be an advocate for the mixed breed photographs! If not Harry, who?

I didn't know Harry's sense of humor was weird. I just thought he was being his normal, boyish, random self! It almost makes me feel a little bit guilty to know that my story is causing students to put off their homework...thank god it's only "almost"!

And yes, it's true, about the egg shells. Those egg artists (you know, the ones who shape and paint egg shells a certain way or make things out of them? Not quite Faberge, I think, but close) they have to wear special protective masks when sanding the egg shell edges, because to inhalation of the fine egg powder is toxic to the lungs. Now, eating the egg shell powder is good for you, because it supposedly adds a lot of calcium to your diet...

You don't care any more, do you? Oh well. Perhaps you'll find a way to insert my useless information into that homework you didn't do!

**sugar n spice 522**: How do I write so much? Simple. I steal the material from others' work!

Just kidding. I guess it's weird of me to just joke about that stuff, but that's how I deal with my problems. Through my twisted sense of humor...

Your faith in me is surprising! Mostly because I've very little faith in myself! But, even if I have to resort to choppy, "See Draco run" sentences, I'll write the ending, if it's the last thing I do! Wow. Sounded kind of villainous for a second! And I'm glad to hear others enjoy the quotes. I'd keep them in whether anybody enjoyed them or not, mostly because I lurve quotes. Any who, enjoy the chappie!

**patagonia**: Thanks so much...you don't have to know what to say (though you're right when you say it sucks!), because it's all better now! I think...

What? Fishish isn't a common, every day word? Say it ain't so! Aah! My virgin ears!

But, in the strange event that you do manage to insert "fishish" into your conversation, please tell me about it, because I'd love to hear about how the hell you managed to do it, and what the reaction was!

Thanks again!

**GIRL W/PNK CONVERSE**: Yeah, it was long wasn't it? Actually makes me a bit nervous...closer to an unknown, unwritten end...eep! Wow, I can't go through the week without saying "super" at least once or twenty times! Maybe that's a problem...any who, thanks!

**Lisi**: Hello Long Lost Lisi! Wow, power to alliteration!

I think it's great that you people are caring and nice enough to get riled up on my behalf. I DON'T think it's great, however, that I went for that whole, generosity, forgiving approach. I SHOULD HAVE tried to "do whatever is possible" to get that person, and now I sorta regret being so nice. Damn.

Well, any who, I appreciate your appreciation of the chapter! And, concerning the Draco and sleep...ah, the power of Mystery. I could be really mean and just let y'all stew in your own questions...but I've had enough of meanness. At least for today! It's really sweet of you to mention future writing, and, with any luck (and lots, lots, lots of years in college!) I'll be qualified to write officially! Thanks!

**Dastardly Snail**: Oh honestly! For shame! There is protectiveness, and then there is vindictiveness. Normally, I have no problem blending the two, but I was going for Understanding, Generous, Older Author in this scenario. I can't be the UGOA if the little brat is getting flames and hatemail from my reviewers. She'll think that I sent you! Because of my incensed email and then my more rational review, she has resorted to change her plagiarizing slightly, so there's nothing more to hate...except for the act itself...and her persistent denial...

But...it does sound tempting, and oh so much fun, to inundate her with Flames of Historical Proportions...

No, no, mustn't! She's retarded, yes, but she's just misguided! Must be kind! Must be mature! Must be...

Avenged!

Obviously, I'm having a Gollum-Smeagol moment here. I'm in no position to tell you what to do, but, whatever action, use your best judgment. I suppose that's my bombastic way of telling you that I'm turning my other cheek, and I hope she does as well...and, while she's not looking, you should bitch smack her.

No, no, I don't support violence. Okay, that was a lie. I was always a bit of a mini-bully as a child... Just...oh well, I don't know. I'm not angry with you. Just the circumstance, I suppose. Enjoy the chapter!

**instar**: Yes, I know, the Draco/Hermione-ness has been a long time coming, hasn't it? It's a shame that the Draco/Hermione-ness had to end so abruptly. Any who, while it would be interesting to see how one could beat one's self with a stick, sadly it will never happen. Neither will that whole "be beaten" scenario either. Mostly because I doubt anybody would find self-beating fun, and sticks aren't my choice of weapon. Now, baseball bats have more momentum...

Okay, must stop all dangerous thoughts! Hmm...thieving tosspot...that's a nice word. Well, obviously, not NICE, but something I could use in the future. Particularly when somebody steals my material. I laughed when I read the "oh the draco ness!" part. Yes, how lovely for us all! Thanks!

**otakuannie**: Whew! It's good to know I wasn't being an overly emotional idiot. Haha, you'd kill them? Well, while inflicting some bodily harm was my first reaction, I realized violence never solves anything. Also, she's probably bigger than me, so it wouldn't really work in my favor. Though, probably, the two of us could take her...

All right, enough with the violent daydreaming. I communicated with her, and she changed it, so there's nothing to report. A rather, mean, selfish part of me wishes I hadn't warned her, so I could have gotten revenge...but I'm trying to earn up points for karma and the afterlife, so that won't work.

Kewl, best friend is Italian? My best friend is...wow, I don't know what she is. Not much of a best friend, now, am I? True, if one has the twins naked (though, hopefully not together. It would be impossible to avoiding comparing...um...certain parts if they're naked together. Plus, how awkward!) one generally does not care where or how many freckles there are! I know, I'm surprised by the sweetness of Draco as well. Damn that man! I'm trying very hard to dislike him! You like Harold Gerald Prewett the First? Wow. He's so strange, I wouldn't know what to make of him!

I'm sorry you aren't feeling well! Believe me, if it's a choice between reviewing or your health, please make the right decision...reviewing! Just kidding, just kidding, don't hurt me. Any who, I figure we should draw up some sort of hit list...maybe ask the Italian Mafia to help us out. Number One: Plagiarizing Bitch (I dunno her real name!) Number Two: Annie's Lazy Project Partner.

Sounds like a plan! Get better!

And, concerning your review for The Wonderful Weasleys...only you can make "I hate you" sound like such a nice compliment!

Thanks for both reviews!

**Oli**: Aw...I feel all warm and fuzzy inside knowing that you care enough to want to take action!

But, I figured that any further distress would really scare the poor thing. Also, the poor (and by "poor," I mean evil) thing happens to live in Australia as well, and I'd hate to imagine what carnage would take place if you two happened to meet on the street!

Louisa May Alcott was the writer of one of my formerly favorite books, Little Women. Perhaps it's critical of me to call it a Mary Sue, but I noticed that quite a few of her books include a dark haired, poor, kind hearted, and spirited female character, bearing close resemblance to herself... So I just lost interest. But hey, it gives Mary Sue writers hope!

Hunter Redfern is like old wine...old INSANE wine! I'm sorry, I just can't get over what he did to Delos. Now DELOS...that's a nice piece of yummy.

You know what? I think I'll just restrain myself from nicely asking for a moaned review. It's not that I don't appreciate them! It's just that...er...um...we should save moaned reviews for special occasions, don't ya think?

I, for one, would have been APPALLED by Draco's crude sense of humor! Seamus giving Harry head! That's just vulgar! Any who, I said "would have been" because...heehee...I'm the one who made him say that, so it would be a bit hypocritical of me to actually resent his joke...

Thanks for the nice review! And GASP! You mean people DON'T enjoy English exams?

**Fizzie-lizzie**: Hey,

Where is the number format? Oh well, all for the better. Considering how much this fanfiction and its characters dominate my life, I'd probably start going "1, B, 3, D..."

Thanks so much for the support. I can't believe people would sink so low as to do that! I didn't know what I was feeling was violation until you mentioned it. Good lord, I can't wait until I'm writing in real life, and copy rights and laws protect me from this sort of crap. I'm glad that your thief wasn't successful with her endeavor. What kills me the most is the fact that people are calling "her" story great and funny. It's not that I want her glory; it's just that they're giving praise to somebody who does not deserve it.

Any way, just writing about it depresses me, so that'll be the end of it. Thanks again for all the comfort!

The Painted Past

Chapter 16

**Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part–**

**Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;**

xoxox

Harry and Poppy had seen her off at the train station. The Weasley boys might have done the same if not for the fact that they were all extremely busy. Ginny decided against it, considering a certain someone was present.

"So you'll just go through?" Poppy repeated for what seemed to be the millionth time. Harry, evidently, had been counting.

"For the twenty third time," Harry snapped, answering for Hermione, "yes! Magical train stations tend to have that sort of entrance; magical ones, I mean."

"There is no need to be so tetchy," Poppy snorted as the three walked along the platform. Harry was pushing Hermione's cart and Poppy was cheerfully toting Crookshanks and Hermione's new maternal books, which she planned on reading during the ride. "If anybody has the right to be tetchy, it is definitely me."

"Not the pregnant woman?" Hermione asked, walking between the two.

"No, not even you," Poppy answered without hesitation. "You've a child who won't talk back sitting in your stomach. I had three seven year olds climbing on my back when I left them with the baby sitter!"

"I do appreciate you being here, Poppy," Hermione assured her as they passed platform five.

"You're the only one," Harry muttered under his breath. Hermione had originally believed that Harry had gotten away with the comment until Poppy, with a gracious smile directed at him, set Hermione's animal as well as the reading material on top of Harry's burden.

"I'm glad that you've found a job," Poppy added, tucking Hermione's arm into the crook of her own. "Though I can't honestly say I'll be sorry to see you go. It was so nice to deliver milk to somebody who did not always ask me if I had found a nice young man yet."

"Which I'm sure you will do soon," Hermione laughed with a comforting pat on her friend's arm.

They strolled lazily past platform seven. There were not many passengers, between the morning and lunch commute, and so they did not fear straying into someone's hurried way.

"What? No comment from smart ass Harry Potter?" Hermione could not help but tease her silent friend. He had, after all, smiled very quickly, as if quelling his initial reaction. "Come on, Harry. Tell us what you're thinking."

"I have no doubt that Poppy Porpington finds many nice young men with no trouble at all," Harry said nonchalantly.

Both Hermione and Poppy walked with unmitigated shock on their features.

"Why, thank you—"

"It's just that they probably hide so effectively that she can't find them the second time around."

Poppy's lips tightened, her nostrils flared, and her now black hair practically stood on end as Hermione giggled. "Hermione, would it look terribly suspicious if I were to push your dear friend onto the tracks?"

"What?" Harry attempted, and failed, innocence. "Hermione told me to speak my thoughts."

"And if Hermione told you to jump off a bridge, would you do that as well?" Poppy demanded, sounding amusingly parental.

"Only if I could take you with me," Harry replied with a friendly grin.

"Oh god!" Poppy sighed in frustration. "I can only hope none of my children come up with that answer."

"Excuse me, but I like to think that my cleverness is far above that of an seven year old."

"Oh, naturally. I would never suggest otherwise. Such rapier wit is, obviously, the product of eight year old brilliancy."

"Hermione," Harry addressed his greatly entertained friend. "You would adopt her triplets if I were to run her over with your luggage, right?"

By this time, they had passed platform nine and were fast approaching platform ten. As they neared the three quarters mark, Hermione slowed her steps, and her company followed suit.

"There'll be reporters on the other side," Harry warned her needlessly.

"I know," Hermione sighed, trying to smile as if she were beginning a new adventure. Inside, she felt as if she were abandoning her last safe haven. Poppy, naturally, was immune to the significance of it all.

"Just because you shacked up with a man and got preggers while you were at it?" she asked skeptically. "If that's all it takes, I really should get an award or something."

"You've got your wand," Harry asked Hermione anxiously, pointedly ignoring the muggle. "You've got your snacks, and your pocket money?" Hermione, feeling ridiculously like a child, nodded. "Don't hesitate to hurt them, Hermione, the reporters I mean. Just say that I did it."

"But you're not going through," Hermione protested.

"'Course not. Doesn't mean you can't lie. Say it was a polyjuice experiment or something—"

"I am so glad you two are speaking of subjects I can understand. It would be unforgivably rude if the conversation largely excluded 'muggles'—"

"And I adore your new hair colour," Hermione quickly added, engulfing the shorter girl in a tight, wistful embrace. "Try and keep it longer than two weeks, all right?"

Poppy had been on the verge of replying when Harry broke into he conversation. "Oh, go on Hermione. A blind man could tell she's copying me."

"Excuse me," Poppy responded, in her most offended tone, "but you do not have a monopoly on the colour black simply because you were born with it!"

"All right, all right," Harry sighed, rolling his eyes and raising his hands in surrender. "You did not dye your hair black to emulate me."

"Damn right I didn't."

Hermione, hoping that lack of recognition would quell the quibble, smiled silently and offered Harry open arms as well. While Harry gripped her tightly, Hermione felt him say, his chin atop her shoulder, "You probably dyed it black to cover your gray hairs."

Poppy fairly combusted with indignation. "I wish you would leave that infantile behavior for a grand thing called adulthood one of these days, Harry Potter."

This emphasis on his youth, above all things, irritated Harry to no end.

"And I wish you would leave England for a grand place called Australia one of these days. Or some place equally far away, if you like, Poppy Porpington."

"With such lovely conversation, I might suspect one of you wishes for there to be something between you two," Hermione warned.

"Yes. I do yearn for a great deal between the great Harry Potter and myself.," Poppy said, with an air of confidential importance. Harry's eyes widened when Poppy shrugged shyly. "I wish there were an ocean between us, in fact."

Harry, who had been listening with a rather inflated ego, now shot back with reddened cheeks, "A wish easily granted with your relocation to Australia."

"Please," Hermione finally sighed, sending a chastising look at the two. Neither appeared very repentant and only smiled supportively as she pushed her luggage through the wall.

"Write if you need anything," Poppy called worriedly.

"See if they've taken care of the socks!" Harry called jokingly, and Hermione turned in time to glare. Faintly, as she crossed the boundary between muggle and witchery, she heard Poppy gasp, and Harry exaggeratedly agree that, yes, the back of Hermione's head was very pretty.

She had meant to read during the ride. Once she had walked briskly through the mob of inquisitive journalists, and settled into her empty compartment, Hermione pulled Crookshanks onto her lap. On his rather generous back, she lightly rested a book, which would tell her what to expect when she was expecting. She did not want to sleep...but her fatigued body had other plans, apparently. Her eyes slid shut after only five minutes of motion.

_Hermione...Hermione..._

_Shut up_, she snapped drowsily, and proceeded to have a restorative nap. She did not want, under any circumstances, want a recreation of what happened after the picnic and before Harry returned to he flat.

xoxox

It was more of a repeating television show than a dream. Whether she willed it or not, the episode came to her whenever she slid into slumber. Even with the stuffiness of her chamber, the complaining of Crookshanks, her eyes still felt terribly heavy. The other professors were probably already in the Great Hall, carefully preparing their expression with equal parts benevolence and gravity. Idly, she wondered if skipping the feast would be such a crime.

Crookshanks scratched at the door. Hermione watched her fat cat from the bed, not sure if liberation was such a wise idea. In the past, her animal had been kept in the Gryffindor tower, especially during the Year, for its own safety. But becoming professor gave her a whole new set of perks, and now Crookshanks was having regular thrashings with Mrs. Norris, earning Hermione even more baleful glares from Mr. Filch. It wasn't right, Mr. Filch had roared to Hermione, that a male should act so savagely to the females. Hermione, though she thoroughly disapproved of her animal's demeanor, had calmly replied that he was quite right and if he could, please, stop yelling at a woman in a delicate condition?

It was a clear night. The first years, with any luck, would have little trouble crossing the water. The other levels would be haughtily seated at the tables, watching the sorting with nostalgia, curiosity, and condescension. Did they really need little old Hermione Granger for the silly little ceremony?

She had arrived with a rushed sort of cheerfulness. No sooner had she stepped into the school had the others greeted her with tranquil happiness, as if she had been there all along. It felt, Hermione thought as she had opened her trunks, as if this sort of welcome was something to expect for years to come.

Professor Lupin—damn it, Hermione corrected herself—Remus had been kind enough to check on her before making his way to the feast. Of course, it would be inordinately spectacular this year, or so he informed her. In his mild tone, he had conveyed that, because this was a much awaited continuation of education, many unusual activities had been planned. The Weasleys' amazing fireworks had been specially ordered. The house elves were given their own table—if any cared to stop their work and rest. The monument she had requested was carefully polished.

It was as if he had known that she was contemplating skiving off the silly supper. But, well, she was here wasn't she? She was proving that man—whose name rhymed with bastard-aco—wrong. The entire episode, although entirely disgusting, was also completely unforgettable.

"_Hermione, go on. Just meet me at the station."_

_It had only been a few seconds after her eyes fell shut, her body still curled up against the head board. Faintly, she tasted the rhubarb on her lips as her heavy thoughts fell away from the waking world. And, as strange as it was, when she closed her eyes, seeking dark solace in sleep, Hermione found herself in a bright, faceted world. She could see her mind's inner workings like a roughly cut diamond against a bright overcast sky, thoughts flashing through sharply hewn, jagged walls, surrounding and cutting through her, as if she were merely a guest within herself._

_There was something wrong, something out of place amongst the clear, razor sharp edges, something that was more out of place than anything else._

"_Meet me tomorrow, at five, all right?"_

_She could feel him, feel everything that made up Draco Malfoy...his presence was little more than a potent wisp here. But she could sense him strongly, as if they were physically standing no more than a foot from one another. Distantly, something about this place reminded her of her dreams of Ron, of her interactions with a boy she thought long dead...but it was certainly not the same location. Here, she was in control. Here, she could banish speakers, if she chose to do so._

"_Draco?"_

_She hadn't spoken. It was mere pondering, vague guessing while she soaked comfortably in drowsiness. She hadn't really expected a two-person interaction in her nap._

"_Yes, love, just agree. I can't come get you. Don't bring anything. I'll take care of it."_

_Out of those rushed, persuasive words, Hermione chose only to notice a few. She could feel his emotions sailing towards her, as if he could do little to hide his feelings in this vulnerable field. He was irritated with her hesitation. He was slightly worried with his unguarded frame of mind. He was somewhat smug with his escape._

"_Come get me? Take care of it?"_

_His irritation increased noticeably. She felt him try, in vain, to mask it with false comfort._

"_Yes, Hermione, don't be difficult. I haven't much time. We have to leave the country."_

_Hermione, still asleep, seeing nothing but a reflective world, physically shook her head, almost hard enough to wake herself up._

"_Wait...just wait. This is Draco?"_

"_No, love, this is Draco. You're Hermione. Are you usually this incoherent in your dreams?"_

"_I'm incoherent? You're the bloody idiot who escaped when there wasn't any reason to do so. You're the great ass who ran away, giving any wizard the privilege of killing you on sight."_

"_So I haven't been given Sirius Black status? The 'don't mess with him, he's too dangerous to trifle with' status?" For a second, he sounded almost wounded by the lack of notoriety. _

"_I suspect they believe you aren't too indestructible. Love motivated missions tends to weaken a man's infamy."_

"_I haven't gone soft," he snapped. _

_It was so utterly confusing, to be speaking yet not speaking, feeling not only her own emotions but his as well, as if they were a part of a two way river. _

"_What are you doing to me?" she wanted to know._

"_Nothing at all. It only depends, from person to person, how one reacts to this sort of invasion—"_

"_You're invading my head!"_

"_It's not important, Hermione. It had to be done. I can't come get you physically. Surely you know that."_

"_Why would you have to come get me physically? I'm not the one in danger."_

"_True. But, Hermione, I can't very well leave you while I travel the world, now, can I? You'll need me."_

_Perhaps his excess confidence had trickled to her own will. Perhaps his uninvited presence irked so much she wanted to be contrary. Whatever the reason, Hermione found herself snapping:_

"_I'll need you? Draco, love, you seem to be a bit disoriented after your break out. You're the one in danger. You're the one in need of shelter, protection. I'm the one who has a very stable life, thank you very much, and I—"_

"_Stable life?" he scoffed. His doubt in her was so palpable Hermione was tempted to awaken herself. "Hermione, you haven't a job, you haven't a husband...and I seriously doubt the security of that complex you live in. It's in Muggle London, for god's sake. Don't be daft and say that you don't need me. It wouldn't be a problem at all to be with you while I search for a new..."_

_He trailed off, knowing and feeling her thickening, boiling anger. It had been rising with each passing word, and sadly, Draco had no idea why she would be so offended._

"_While it is common knowledge I've been somewhat incapacitated for the past few months, I think I can manage taking care of myself. I've been doing a wonderful job so far, haven't I?"_

"_With tremendous help," Draco argued, unable to find the fault of his reasoning. "You're living in Dumbledore's flat, being aided by Potter and the Weasleys...Hermione, dear, I know you're not useless. I don't mean to imply that. I just think that, with your condition and all...Hermione you'll need me."_

"_Single mothers manage every day without some man's help," she replied icily._

"_But you're not one," he snapped. "You are not a single mother, Hermione, and don't you ever think that. Do you really think that I'd abandon you, pregnant with my son?"_

"_If the idea is so appalling," she demanded, "then why the hell did you escape?"_

_He did not immediately send her a worded response. Instead, Hermione felt it. Hesitation, shame, bitterness, anger, possessiveness..._

"_You selfish bastard."_

_She felt him give a mental equivalent of rolling his eyes. "I haven't even told you why."_

"_But we both know. You don't want to help with the Triad."_

"_The word 'help' implies voluntary action. Potter's forcing my hand."_

"_I don't care. That's it, isn't it? That's why."_

"_Hermione—"_

"_How can you be so selfish? How can you risk it? I may never have the opportunity to see you again, you may not get the chance to watch our baby be born...all because you don't want to keep your word?"_

"_It's not about that. I don't care about that. It's not that I'm worried, Hermione. I know you love me, just as much as I love you..."_

_She had to hand it to him. Even when in the most dire of straits, he managed to maintain a healthy opinion of himself._

"..._but it just doesn't feel right."_

"_Oh go on Draco," she retorted dryly. "You're hesitating in participating in a ceremony—which incidentally, might bring Ron back—because it doesn't feel right? I'm not stupid, Draco. You can't say you don't have some prejudice in the matter."_

"_I would be lying if I did," he admitted stubbornly. "But I mean that it doesn't feel right. The boy's dead, Hermione. We both know that. And yet we're going to change the past just because we're not happy with the way things turned out? That's crap, Hermione, and you know it."_

_She said nothing and, taking this to be resignation, Draco continued. "Meet me at the train station, first platform around five, and then I'll—"_

"_Draco," she interrupted, softly, withdrawing from him by slow degrees. Vaguely, Hermione felt the temperature of her own room, skin raised by the chilly breeze from the window. "Draco...I'm not going to meet you."_

"_Don't be so difficult Hermione. If you'll just think on the matter—"_

"_No Draco," she refused gently. He was bewildered by her suddenly calm demeanor, and Hermione took no pains in explaining her abrupt mood change. Slowly, she became aware of her own body, her back aching slightly with the uncomfortable position. She would awaken within a few minutes. "No Draco. You're the one who has to think...just review, please, what you just said. And, until you understand it fully, don't contact me again."_

"_What the hell are you talking about? What if something goes wrong?"_

"_Then I'll contact you. It's just...well, Draco, you can't keep doing this!"_

"_Doing what? You're angry with me, I see that, but I can't exactly pin point why."_

"_I dislike how you see it perfectly okay to simply do whatever the hell you please, and then expect the affected people to adapt accordingly. It's too damn selfish Draco, it's too damn exhausting to deal with all the time."_

"_Look, I'm not expecting you to adapt automatically. That's why I'm willing to help you. That's why you need to cooperate."_

"_While I appreciate the sentiment, Draco, you're overestimating yourself. I can do without you, despite your doubts. Unlike some people, I know how to deal with what's been dealt to me. I don't have to break laws, manipulate people, or change the past to adjust. I know how to live with my life, without resorting to your methods."_

"_Suddenly you're so disgusted with me." Vehemence dripped from the thought. "And yet you find me amiable enough when you're scared. When you're lonely. When you need to be comforted."_

"_Don't be a child, Draco. You don't disgust me. You're way of dealing with your life disgusts me. And if you insist that dragging me into that evasive, deceptive life style, then we have nothing to say to each other."_

_He felt her pulling away, and hurried to stall the end of the conversation. _

"_Hermione, don't be brash. You'll need me, somewhere down the road, just as I need you—"_

"_Yes, of course I will, you know I will. But there are some things I'm not willing to do all for the sake of being with you. And it's an insult for you to ask me."_

"_You're willing to break a dozen laws, judicially and metaphysically, to bring back Ronald Weasley, but you refuse to meet with me? How am I insulting more than Potter's insulted you?"_

"_Good god, Draco, it's hardly about that! Of course, I'm aware of what would be sacrificed if I helped Harry. And of course, I know what rules would be broken if I helped you escape. But Draco, how could you be so blind? How the hell, I'd like to know, would traipsing around the world be good for our baby?" She was met with no response, and cold disappointment washed over her. "You haven't thought of that, have you? It never even occurred to you. You needed me, all right, you'd stay and help me and make sure I was all right...but you never thought about how the baby's health would be affected."_

_There was a suffocating silence, and Hermione watched and felt the racing thoughts of her mind slow to a sedate, waiting pace. It was as if everything on her mind weighed on his response. Her next actions depended solely on his reaction. If not for the fact that she still felt the silhouette of his presence, she would have assumed he left._

"_I..." He faltered, uncertainly, but still maintaining his hard tone of honesty. "I can't pretend that it's my number one priority, Hermione. You are. I don't know how hard travel would affect it...but I know that things will be better, for the both of us, if we remained together."_

"_It would be better for you," she contradicted. "You may think that I need you—and I do, in some ways—but you've forgotten that I'm much more than you give me credit for. I'm a mother now. And I'm still capable of taking care of myself. So, until you realise that..."_

"_Hermione, just wait a second—"_

"_There's not much left to discuss."_

_Hermione opened her eyes, feeling as if she should have done so long ago._

xoxox

"You haven't touched your food," Hagrid pointed out, shaking Hermione out of her memories. Before them, most of the students had reached the dessert portion of their meal. Candles helped light the feast, but the fireworks far above them showered the food and children with sporadic flashes of coloured light. The Weasley twins had appeared briefly, to welcome the new post-Year generations, and to advertise their products. George and Fred also chatted with Dumbledore, Lupin, and Hagrid, stopped for some serious questions for Hermione—How are you doing? Are you eating enough? Don't hesitate to use corporeal punishment if they cheek you—and gave some airy advice to some of her future pupils. Hermione, naturally, had been happy to see them, but let out a sigh of relief when they finally left. It would not do for the Hogwarts students to aspire to Fred and George prankster status.

"I'm just distracted by the reconstruction," she assured him with her brightest smile. "It all looks the same as before, yet everything looks so different as well."

"'Course," Hagrid agreed. "It'll take a few centuries to get that old feeling again."

Hermione assumed that, by "old feeling," Hagrid meant the atmosphere. Her Hogwarts had been a place of palpable tradition, holding an awe inspiring aura of earnestness. This Hogwarts, while exactly identical in architecture and design, exuded an undeniable air of potential. It was no longer bound by the old stereotypes, the antiquated beliefs, the age old fear of evil. This was a very new world.

Her thoughts of change were illustrated when she observed one bread roll sailing through the air, landing squarely on the back on one Slytherin boy's head. A loud chorus of giggles suddenly erupted from the Hufflepuff table. Deductive reasoning concluded one female Hufflepuff fourth year was the instigator, and the male fifth year Slytherin victim did not mind so much.

It would be naïve to think that all the villains sprang only from the House of Slytherin. Many pure blooded families had students in Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor; and a number of those students decided to remain loyal to their families' beliefs and fought for the Dark Lord's side. Hermione had been minorly apprehensive about the Slytherin reception, but was immensely relieved during the sorting ceremony. The applause for those sorted into that house received the polite applause many of the other students had, and none of the conversation strayed farther than friendly inter-house rivalry.

Professor Sinastra was the new Head of the Slytherin House. Confusion was rampant at the Slytherin table when this information came to light. Hermione herself did not, for the life of her, understand this decision, but accepted the announcement with a smile. Perhaps nobody else was willing to assume the role.

One thing amongst Hermione's many concerns was the reinstatement of Professor Lupin. A great deal now knew of his werewolf condition, and a great deal were still ignorant as to what was proper etiquette around such a creature. The smattering of applause when Dumbledore recognised the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher caused Hermione to bristle with annoyance. Remus Lupin, she wanted to shout at the doubtful students, was the best teacher she had ever had in her seven years at Hogwarts, and they would do well to treat him with more respect.

Her own recognition was met with a startling amount of exuberance. When she stood after Dumbledore's short introduction, Hermione nearly sat down again, surprised by the force of the applause. It was her military history, she decided as she smiled politely. It was the military history that made her so popular. Gryffindor, always proud, had cheered the loudest, so much so that Dumbledore was forced to send a mildly stern look in their direction.

Of course, it would have been highly self absorbed of her to assume that she was the only former student recruited to fill in the vacant spots. Lee Jordan, much to her obvious surprise, was the new Muggle Studies Professor. After Dumbledore's introduction, and Lee's ensuing long and flowery speech, Hermione caught his sleeve as he past her seat.

"But what about the store?"

Lee shrugged. "I won't be here long. Lupin over there guilted me into taking the job until somebody more permanent can take over."

With the concern over her student's education in mind, Hermione asked anxiously, "But what do you know about muggles?"

Lee winked. "I've dated enough." Then, in respect to the next introduction—Hermione could not recall when so many new professors had been introduced at one feast—Lee returned to his chair and Hermione listened as Hogwarts met their new flying instructor and Quidditch referee.

"Oliver," she whispered quickly just as Wood was ready to dive into his meal. "What about your team?"

"I'll be back," he answered in a low voice. "Remus told me how they needed a temp for the moment, and he's promised that they're scrambling to find a replacement."

Hermione leaned back into her seat and sent a glare to her former DADA professor, one that clearly stated, "You're a horrible, manipulative man for tricking these students into staying."

Remus must have been very literate when it came to glares, for he sent a pleasant smile back, which Hermione interpreted as, "I know, but now I don't have to double up and teach twice as many classes."

Then all the silent conversation of eye expressions halted, for Dumbledore had finished his speech—something along the lines of you are what you eat so avoid sour apples, prunes, et cetera—and the feast began.

"Poor things," Madame Pomfrey said from her left.

"What was that?"

"They have no idea."

"Of what?"

"Of what to expect this year."

Hermione's eyes scanned the four long tables. "I can't imagine it to be so terrible. Everybody's being far more friendlier than I would have imagined."

"True. But everybody's been out of school for a year and half."

"You can't be suggesting that they're not eager to fall back into studies?" Hermione asked, disbelief lacing her words. "Compared to the War, school work should feel like a blessed holiday."

"Not all of them have fought in the war," Pomfrey reminded her as the prefects began to lead their house mates to their dormitories. "And those who have might have grown accustomed to that sort of life, preferring that over this new, more sedate one."

Upon seeing Hermione's troubled expression, Madame Pomfrey smiled cheerfully. "Oh, no need to be so glum. Merely conjectures of an aging mind."

"I think I'm being a bit naïve but I can't imagine not wanting to learn."

"Of course you don't," the elder woman agreed, a small, amused smile playing on her lips. Hermione abruptly felt irreversibly young. Here she sat, along with the wisest and most experienced of professors, with the silly idea that all her students would be as voracious for knowledge as she was. "Do eat your dessert," Madame Pomfrey suggested, patting her hand with encouragement.

Hermione did not know if she said this out of habitual protectiveness for students, or because she knew of Hermione's condition. Ever since Hermione had informed her of her "family way", Madame Pomfrey had seen it as a sort of personal mission to make sure Hermione was in the best of health. While Hermione did not find this at all necessary, it was something to tell the Weasleys or Harry when they became too worried. In fact, with a full belly, a happy cat, and her own, independent status, Hermione could not foresee any possible problems when she settled for bed that night.

xoxox

She faintly wondered who would be the next terror, the next dreaded Severus Snape. Who would be the one to make the students cower and cringe? Who would be the one so severe that even the other professors frowned upon the practices? And then, half way through the day, Hermione realised that the next Snape would be herself.

The first day of school began so promisingly. The seventh years, who had been mere fifth years by the time the Golden Trio had commenced their own last year at Hogwarts, were surprisingly humble and affable. She had had little contact with many of them, truthfully, when she was a student, so differentiating herself as the authority and not a peer proved none too difficult. She told them of the importance of the N.E.W.T.'s. When she received the fifth years, she equated studying for the O.W.L's to breathing, and for the first years, Hermione summoned her best, comforting smile.

Despite her best efforts, Hermione could not prevent disasters.

Seventh year Hufflepuff, Conner Effrom, saw it fit to preserve the honour code of the class by chastising seventh year Slytherin, Ramsey Brump. Had not Hermione observed them to be best mates at the feast the night prior, she would have worried about a potential brawl.

"Don't bloody swear in front of a lady," Conner abruptly interrupted Hermione's lesson.

"Are you speaking to me?" Ramsey drawled, looking up from his desk, where he had spilled his ink well.

"Of course I am, you effing idiot. You just said something impolite."

"The hell I did," Ramsey replied, offended.

Hermione sighed and stepped around her desk to interfere. Honestly. Weren't the effects of colour changing potions interesting enough to hold their attention?

"Well, _now_ you did," Conner pointed out.

"Only because you provoked me, you stupid sod."

"Bollocks!"

"Oh yes, _that's_ polite, _that's_ the very model of gallantry."

"Boys, please," Hermione said sternly, and was very surprised that they continued to speak right over her.

"Since when were you the language police?" Ramsey wanted to know.

"Since you opened your bleedin' mouth," Conner replied challengingly.

"I can say whatever the hell I want," Rasmey argued, and turned to their young, bewildered potions professor. "Can't I? He's trying to infringe on my rights as a human being—"

"You must be using a very loose definition of 'human being,'" Conner muttered, sending the other students into giggles.

"Look, mate, you're the one who started it—"

"Only because you said—" Hermione, wanting to show at least some minimal control over her students, cleared her throat. "Only because you said what you said in the presence of ladies."

Ramsey swept his gaze over the amused students, all of whom were smiling eagerly, waiting for his reply. Not one female appeared very traumatized.

"They don't mind," Ramsey gestured expressively.

"Oh, Merlin, I wasn't talking about those cows," Conner said amiably, with a chuckle. "I meant Professor Granger."

This, while respectful for Hermione, did not bode well for the rest of the class. Many outraged girls spoke up at this point. By the time Professor Granger calmed the girls, forced apologies out of both Conner and Ramsey, clarified the fine lines between unalienable rights of speech and proper etiquette, their class had ended. Hermione had had to assign five feet of parchment of the remaining lesson to ensure that they would know enough for their next class, and, much to her surprise, her students had not seen the necessity of such homework.

In her time with Ravenclaw and Gryffindor third years, Hermione initiated an experiment in which they were to change carnation buds into fully blossomed flowers with two or three drops of a certain concoction. In theory, it was not a difficult assignment. But, also in theory, clumsy Gryffindor boys did not fall onto Ravenclaw girls' cauldrons.

"Alfie, for Merlin's sake!" Eliza Ingrim exclaimed irritably. The unfinished potion had spilled all over the unopened flowers and the front of the young girl's robes, and the young lady had to slap Alfred's helping hands away to preserve her virtue. While Hermione was relieved to see that the liquid had no harmful effects on Eliza's form, she did frown when the buds shriveled into black, raisin-like pits. Just what had Eliza put into that cauldron any way?

"Oops!" Alfred had the gall to smile charmingly. Hermione, with raised eyebrows, heard a good deal of feminine sighs from her students when he did so. Surely that spindly, ginger haired boy was not the heart throb of their age group?

"Oops won't cut it!" Eliza retorted. Alfred Willingham frowned, perhaps irked that she did not grant immediate forgiveness.

"You did trip me," Alfie pointed out.

"I did not!"

"Your foot was sticking out," Alfred argued defensively. Hermione knew she should have risen at this point, but, for some reason beyond understanding, her tired body did not want to leave her chair at this moment. She seemed to have a slight ache all over, and, always very stubborn to admit to any weakness, even if it was pregnancy, Hermione attributed it to the long walk into the dungeons.

"And where would you prefer my feet?" Eliza asked him acidly. "Up in the air?" Then Eliza appeared to regret her choice of words immediately.

Alfie opened his mouth to reply when he caught himself, and swallowed a very naughty smile. In fact, a great many boys and girls quickly covered their mouths to cover a suggestive smirk. Hermione did rise now, and marched to where the accident had taken place. With her hardest tone, she ordered Ingrim to cease the dramatics, Willingham to share his potion, and for the young man to be a gentleman and apologise properly.

The room of thirteen year olds erupted with laughter when Alfie had turned to Eliza and said, with his most solemn expression, "I am sorry for deflowering you, Eliza. I can assure you with the utmost sincerity that I did not enjoy it."

It was the first detention of her career, and yet Alfie did not feel the slightest bit honoured.

Once she had finished her lecture to the first years Hufflepuff and Gryffindors, Hermione had asked if anybody had any questions, quite certain that that phrase had never been uttered so pleasantly in the dungeons. She was pleased as can be when all Gryffindor girls raised their hands immediately. It meant, her optimistic mind assumed, that there were students who were just as thirsty for knowledge as she had been and—

"Can you please explain the patches on the girls dormitory stairs?" Violet Branbury asked frankly.

"Wh—what?"

Katherine Hemsley nodded emphatically. "There are patches of cloth on the stairs and, no matter what anybody tries, we can't get them off." The Hufflepuff students were visibly intrigued by this seemingly random decoration.

To her horror, Hermione felt her face flame up with embarrassment. "And what," she asked, keeping her voice cool, "leads you to believe that I would know the answer to that?"

"Well..." Violet smiled with artless innocence. "Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley advised us to ask you about it."

Hermione wondered if one could keep a position at Hogwarts when one has committed the murder of two, troublesome brothers. And then she deducted points for the persistent and irrelevant questions.

After her very last class, Hermione had gathered her papers and then rushed back to her room, where she took supper with Crookshanks. After enduring concerned visits from Dumbledore, Madame Pomfrey, Professor Sprout, Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall, Hagrid, and, what seemed to be, the entire staff of house elves, Hermione finally changed into her nightgown and kissed Crookshanks tonight.

A knock on her door caught her just before she fell asleep. Hermione grumbled as she donned her dressing gown, ungrateful for the rescue.

"Yes?"

Remus Lupin stood at her door way, and glanced at her attire in surprise. Then he checked his pocket watch, and shrugged. Hermione narrowed her eyes, and knew what he had just thought.

_To bed? So early? Ah, well, who can explain the ways of pregnant women?_

"I was just wondering if you were interested in beginning the lessons for tonight...but, seeing as you're indisposed, we'll just discuss the matter tomorrow."

"Of course," she replied curtly, fatigue draining all the respect normally reserved for him. Then, of course, the emotion did an about face. It wasn't Remus Lupin's fault that she felt horribly achy sometimes, and it wasn't his fault that she had to use the loo so many times it alarmed her students, and it wasn't his fault that she occasionally found the temperature so stifling she thought she would die. In short, it wasn't Remus Lupin's fault that she was preggers, and so it would not do for him to bear the brunt of her irrational moods.

"Professor Lupin," she called out as she watched him leave. He paused, and turned to her inquisitively.

Well. She had to say something else now, didn't she? Hermione guess the two words she had just uttered had not conveyed all her mental rationalizations.

"Do you think I'm doing well? As a professor?"

Remus contemplated the question, and shrugged. "It's only the first day. But I find it difficult to believe that you would do poorly. You are Hermione Granger, after all."

"You didn't give a very definitive answer, professor," she pointed out, crossing her arms stubbornly.

"Remus," he corrected with a smile. "And you're right. I did not. If it makes you feel any better, there are already students complaining of hand paralysis, supposedly resulting from the effects of your homework."

Hermione slumped against her door way, staring down at her slipper clad toes. "They hate me, don't they?"

He had the gall to roll his eyes. "That hardly matters. What matters is, they respect you enough to actually complete your assignments. You've no idea how difficult it's been for Wood to have his students complete their homework. They view him as their favourite athlete, instead of their new teacher."

"But he's only...what possible homework could Oliver Wood give?"

Again, he rolled his eyes, but his smile robbed the action of any malice. "The first years must turn in a seven feet long essay of the history of Quidditch before they ever leave the ground."

"But first year flyers are not necessarily future Quidditch players," she protested, remembering her own particular appall for that class.

"A thought that has never crossed Wood's mind, apparently."

Hermione summoned her sternest look—which, accidentally of course, made one of her students cringe today—and studied her former professor. "You are still looking for replacements, of course."

"Of course," Remus echoed with such sincere-looking innocence it had to be false. "But, if they find that they love teaching so much they could not bear to depart...well, all for the better!"

"It won't happen," Hermione stated pessimistically. "Jordan loves the store, and Wood loves the game. Teaching won't be enough."

Remus shrugged as he began to back away. "Arguable. But, if they happen to stay until the end of the term...then it will be Dumbledore's responsibility to find their replacements. Not mine."

"I never would have suspected you to be so underhanded, professor," she told him sternly, arms akimbo.

Remus smiled his patented harmless smile—which, Hermione began to believe, was a smile he used when doing something slightly wrong—and waved good night. As he did so, he said, voice fading as the distance grew, "And what a joy it is to be at Hogwarts, when even the professors learn something new each day."

xoxox

Hermione, for the, oh, thirtieth or thirty first time that day, wanted to hit a student.

Not that she had done anything wrong.

It was those damn bracelets. Those damn _Free Draco_ bracelets that had been so popular—or so Jordan had told Hermione, as she herself had never seen them during her excursions to the Ministry or in Muggle London—during Malfoy's imprisonment had been magicked into _Find Draco_ jewelry. And Hermione had the sneaking suspicion that these girls—these sighing, cow eyed, frivolous girls—did not want Draco found to be brought to justice.

A great many, obviously, wanted to know about the infamous case. And it pained them to have the victim so near and yet unavailable questions. One fifth year Slytherin made the fatal mistake of bluntly asking her if she knew where Draco was.

"It is Malfoy to you, it is none of your concern, and I fail to see how this will be on your O.W.L.'s," Hermione snapped, and deducted twenty points for disrespect. In fact, only the Gryffindors had the bravery and only the Slytherins had the determination to actually question her on the subject.

Both McGonagall and Sinastra had asked her, delicately, why she had been responsible for a large percentage of deductions from their houses. And her response had been terse and brooked no room for argument.

"Because it was necessary."

And, adding insult to injury, they were not doing their homework! Hermione would find five foot six inch essays in her hands, when she specifically asked for six feet! Even class work appeared too much for her pupils. Half of one second year class had produced Bare Inducement potions, when she had clearly specified Bear Inducement potions. Dumbledore had given her a somewhat stern lecture upon hearing the rumour of half nude students running amok in the dungeons.

Hermione had always respected her teachers, naturally, but never before had she admired them until she had actually taken their place. By Wednesday's lunch time, Hermione had been grinding her teeth so much she was surprised she had enough left to chew her food.

True, she could have eaten in her chambers, thus avoiding the curious stares some of the students sent her, but, to Hermione, that would have been too cowardly to bear. Besides, now that she was professor, students could not be as frank nor insinuating about the rumours as students used to be when she was a mere student. True, Professor Sprout was a great deal too nosy for her own good, but at least she asked questions in a sweet, subtle way, and without judgment.

As Hermione began her second salad—not really remembering how or when she finished her first—when a small, irked frown stole over her features.

She had plenty of reasons to frown.

One, she had no idea where the father of her child was, or the condition of his safety.

B, the father of her child had not attempted to contact her.

A small part of her argued that she had firmly told Draco to not contact her, and then Hermione would argue back that she had given him a condition, and obviously, he could not swallow his pride to meet those conditions and open up a means to communicate.

But there were other reasons why her lips were curved downward.

Three, she was beginning to show. True, her robes did an adequate job of concealing any curve she had—pregnant or non pregnant—but still. Surely, after some time, no amount of cloth would hide the fact that she was bringing another Malfoy into the world.

D, she did not know whether her baby would be a Malfoy or a Granger. She hadn't technically married Draco. But Hermione knew, for a fact, that there had never been an illegitimate child in the Granger history, and she wasn't sure she wanted her baby to be the first.

Five, she did not know how Harry was managing living on his own. She had been the one to remind him to get off his arse, to shop for the groceries, to change shirts at least a couple times a week. And Hermione had a difficult time imagining Harry at Number Twelve and being very satisfied with it. Obviously, good company would have helped the situation, but, considering that the Weasleys were either angry or indifferent to him, and Harry disdained visits from anybody else—one bumbling visit from Neville had painfully proven that fact—isolation was the only option. Hermione contemplated sending Crookshanks over for company.

F, Hermione was starting to believe that this pregnancy was wreaking havoc on her mind. For, once more, she had awoken with the niggling feeling that she was forgetting something, and, for the life of her, could not place the source.

And, finally, seven: She really should have dropped Draco's habits by now.

So embroiled in her thoughts was she that she barely acknowledged the sudden hush that settled in the massive dining hall. Nor did she notice the dozens upon dozens of students pouring through the doors. Unlike her fellow teachers, she did not rise in curiosity when a growing buzz began to circulate the room. And Hermione barely blinked when one silly female fainted.

In fact, Hermione did not drop her grumpy expression nor put down her fork full of kidney pie until somebody tapped her shoulder.

And then the sudden appearance of eager students made sense. And then the swooning fits became explainable, and then that buzz suddenly clarified into an intelligible phrase.

Harry Potter has returned.

And what a smiling idiot he was, standing before her, in Muggle clothes, holding a newspaper wrapped present in one hand and a bouquet in the other. "You thought I forgot, didn't you?" he teased, looking for all the world as if he hadn't caused quite a scene in her workplace.

Upon hearing his deepened voice—much deeper, they would later gossip, than it had been before the Unforgivable Battle—one boy at the Ravenclaw table sighed audibly.

Hermione wanted to continue her unhappiness—she had, after all, worked herself into a rather good fit of sulks—but she couldn't help but smile. Harry was so irrepressibly happy, grinning at her like an exuberant child. His hair had been somewhat mussed, his cheeks rosy, his emerald eyes bright, as if he had raced to her as fast as the laws of physics would allow. Hermione observed him like a proud mother. She desperately wanted to tuck in his black collared shirt into his matching black trousers, desperately wanted to button his cuffs and the top two at his neck he seemed to neglect...but she had a feeling that if she laid one finger on Harry, a gaggle of lovesick girls would attack her.

Forgetting the rest of her meal, Hermione rose and began to walk around to meet his side. But Harry, impatient, only shook his head, laid his gifts on the table, and ducked under to crawl and reach her side. At the sight of his bent derriere, a girl had muttered a comment and they heard Lee Jordan deduct ten points for lewd conduct.

"Happy Birthday," he said enthusiastically, and engulfed her in a tight hug—during which she observed her jealous students over his shoulder—and he then shoved the present in her arms afterwards. "Nineteen," Harry continued with a sorrowful shake of his head as he plunked himself into her empty seat. "You're an old maid now."

"What does that make you?" she teased, sitting beside him. Hermione had to admire him. Here he was, centre of everybody's attention, causing heart attacks and romantic fainting fits, and Harry looked as if they were sitting down for tea at the Burrow.

"Please," he scoffed, finishing Hermione's meal. "A man never gets old. He merely grows distinguished."

"Yes, but I thought we were speaking of you, and I don't recall the subject of 'grown men' being introduced to the conversation."

"Gasp," Harry replied, holding his heart. "You wound me." He turned his bespectacled gaze to an approaching figure.

"Madame Pomfrey, do you see how she wounds me? You may have another patient soon."

"I have plenty of them as it is," Madame Pomfrey scolded, breezily passing them as she made her way to one student. "With you causing such spells of unconsciousness."

Harry shrugged, smirked, and promptly caused twenty or more girls to fall in love with him.

It wasn't that he was so very handsome–which he was, Hermione generously decided, in his own right. It wasn't that he was so very charming–which he could be, Hermione remembered, when it served his purposes. It was simply that he was the boy who lived, the man who saved them all, and the strangely modest person who did not give a damn about either status. Such singular and nonchalant behavior was apt to inspire fans to want to see what was underneath his carefree and cool demeanor.

He assured her that he had brought more presents, mostly from the Weasleys, and that he had given them to Dobby to send to her chambers. "I was wondering if you could come to dinner with me tonight," Harry asked Hermione. She did not answer straight away. Instead, she watched, with amusement, how one boy fell off of the bench end, in an attempt to hear more of their conversation.

"Hmm? Oh, well, I can't—"

"I've already asked your employer."

"And?"

They were interrupted by Lee Jordan's hard pat on Harry's shoulder, and the consequent boisterous reunion. Harry expressed his surprise to see Jordan teaching; Lee expressed his surprise to see Potter at all.

"Rumour had it you were in Troon," Lee said amiably, sitting on the table. Hermione cleared her throat, and, with a roll of his eyes, Jordan found himself a chair to straddle.

"Rumour rarely has anything at all," Harry snorted. "And, good god, what would I do in Troon?"

Jordan shrugged. "The same thing you've done for the past year?"

"Is that your subtle way of trying to find out what the hell I've been up to?" Harry asked, smilingly.

"I could care less," Jordan denied. Then, he leaned forward. "But will you tell me?"

Harry's response was a loud, resonating laugh. Hermione, though slightly piqued that her birthday had been forgotten so quickly, was happy to see him. It had been ages since she had seen Harry in company—real company, not the odd visitor now and then. He had made the choice to expose himself to the general public—well, not _literally _expose, but Hermione had the instinct that this public would not have minded so much—and he did not regret that decision.

"Mr. Potter," one prefect said in exasperation. The three elders looked interestedly at the Hufflepuff sixth year. Hermione tried to remember his name, but could not concentrate entirely on the endeavor. Most of her attention was on the sighing, smiling, and half way conscious girl in his arms.

"Perhaps you'd like to continue the reunion somewhere private?" Harry looked blankly at him.

"Somewhere private means somewhere else," Jordan interpreted wryly, rising and offering Hermione a hand. She took it, but with great reluctance. She wasn't so pregnant that she needed assistance standing, right?

"So girls and boys won't marvel at every smile, laugh, and breath of Harry Potter," Jordan further explained when Harry merely frowned in confusion as they calmly made their way to the main doors, the students parting like the Red Sea. Harry's head swivelled left and right, cynicism peppering his handsome face.

"They're faking," he said petulantly, evidently not too pleased with the prospect of being relocated. Hermione saw that he had enjoyed the Great Hall. He enjoyed the atmosphere, the chatting students, the familiarity of sitting with Lee and Hermione while he ate.

"Of course they are," Hermione said briskly, swallowing the sudden nostalgia. "They're trying to play your hero instincts."

As if to prove her point, Harry spied some of these felled students peek open one eye as he passed by, seeing if their condition won his concern. With something close to a growl, he grabbed Hermione's arm and dragged them quickly out of the hall, out of the hall way, and out of the castle.

Once they were safely under the overcast sky, Lee Jordan swore abruptly, and raced back inside, a quick good bye tossed over his shoulder.

Harry turned to Hermione with a question ready on his lips.

Hermione shrugged. "Professor Jordan may be the only one in his classes who is constantly late."

Harry smiled, and squinted at the darkening sky. Hermione thought that, with her condition in mind, he would have suggested Hogsmeade, or another part of the castle.

Instead, he said, "Let's go to the Forest."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest the suggestion, to point out the inclement weather, to question his suddenly deadened tone. But before she did have the chance, Harry was already striding purposefully away. Hermione guessed, as she jogged to catch up with him, that his expression was dark enough to discourage any sort of interaction, for the scattered students loitering about the lawns scrambled out of the way as soon as he approached them.

"Harry?" she panted. He turned his head, smiled, and continued to walk. "Harry, slow down."

He stopped so suddenly she nearly ran into him, and he grabbed her elbow to steady her. "You haven't opened it yet," he said softly, nodding towards the gift in her other hand. The bouquet, she suddenly realised, she had forgotten at the table.

Harry's mind ran along the same thoughts. "They'll be plucked bare by the time you get back."

"You could fix the problem by stop being so handsome," she teased.

"Or by being gay," he added jovially, tucking her arm in the crook of his own.

"I have classes." She did hate the thought of ending this surprise visit, but her responsibilities far outweighed her own desires now. Hermione sighed, hating how adult she had become.

"I asked Wood to substitute," Harry said flippantly as they treaded an unmarked path. "Dumbledore's okayed it."

"Wonderful. He'll have them concocting acceleration potions for the Quidditch snitch in no time."

"Can you do that?" His expression was far too eager for her tastes.

"They're illegal in official matches," she answered flatly. Hermione faintly felt a cold drop fall on her cheek, and she carelessly wiped it off.

"Not to mention unfair—Did you hear that?"

Hermione paused. "No. But then again, we're in the Dark Forest, Harry. Other beings are allowed to be in here."

He nodded, and Hermione wished he weren't quite so alert. True, it was his alertness that had saved his and others' lives in the past, it wasn't so necessary now. They were safe now, and Harry had yet to abandon his finely honed caution.

"I've been to the Black Forest, you know," he began conversationally, helping her over a log. She made an interested noise and handed the package to him when he offered to take it.

"It's amazing, you know, how uncreative these names for forests are. I imagine there's a forest somewhere named the Dim Forest—only slightly less dangerous than this one, of course—and then another named the Dusky Forest. Then I wager there exists a Darker than Grey, Lighter than Black Forest, though one can hardly merit the danger of that. Then, I suppose there's a Green Forest, and a Leafy Forest, and the Forest of Trees—"

"And I suppose you've visited them all?"

"It's possible." They were very deep within the woods now, and Hermione would not be able to leave without his assistance. If it had been any other person, even if it had been Fred or George, Hermione would have worried. But it was Harry, and, despite their prolonged absence from one another, she trusted him completely. In the way she should have been able to trust anybody she loved.

"It's a horrible day for a birthday," he lamented. "It would make anybody depressed to grow a year older."

"It's not avoidable."

"True. But, at least, you're not among the Humog."

"The what?"

"Humog tradition counts the months in pregnancy as a year, so, when you're born, you're already one year old," he explained as he stood on a stump, and surveyed the land with an air of great importance. He chuckled and jumped to the leaf littered floor again, and took Hermione's hand into his own.

"You'd be twenty right now," he told her, as the wind swayed branches around them.

"As would you," she couldn't help but point out, hating how old all this talk made her feel. "And did you visit this place, this mer—this hum—place?"

"It's not a place. They're a people," he informed her lightly. "And yes. They have a few things that are handy to have around."

Hermione's brow furrowed, and she wondered if Harry had acquired these items legally, and then decided that she didn't want to know.

Harry released her hand, and marched forward to a rather large boulder. It was moss covered, jaggedly carved, and had few roots and plants sprouting from every crag. Like an over ambitious little boy, he immediately attacked the random geological wonder, his fingers digging into the rock and his toes scrambling for every foot hold.

"I've never seen this here," Harry said excitedly, already breathless as he reached the middle of the miniature hill. "Then again," he called down to Hermione, who was fifteen feet below and watching his movements anxiously, "it might have landed here as a result from one of the battles. Explosions and all that."

"Be careful," she called out when Harry's left foot slipped. He only grinned in response and made his way to the top.

"Yes, mother," he called down, and settled himself, leaning against one pitiful piece of shrubbery. He tossed the present down, and Hermione deftly caught it. "Open it already."

"You shouldn't have thrown it," she admonished as she unwrapped the hefty package, "I could have been killed."

"Then that would be two Neutiquam erro ceremonies I'd have to perform," he joked, looking for all the world like a king sitting happily on his throne. She ignored the words as she set the rather large present on a smaller rock, and then lifted the lid. In it, she only saw small piece of terry cloth. Reaching in, she lifted the small bib out, and read aloud:

"Spit happens."

"Clever, isn't it?" She smiled indulgently and Harry continued, "There's more you know."

"What do you mean? I don't see anything in the box."

"That doesn't mean there isn't more," he argued.

Hermione tilted her head to the side, studied the box from all angles, and then shrugged. Her hands reached into the box blindly, and she was surprised to feel the corners of a book.

"Do you know what it is?" He sounded somewhat closer, and Hermione looked up to find him making his haphazard way down.

"Oh Harry!" she gushed, jumping up in down in excitement. "The Invisible Book of Invisibility! They say it's impossible to find!"

"Well, there _is_ a reason," Harry retorted, dropping beside her to look—well, as best as one could—at his present. "But, I managed. I am Harry Potter, after all."

"We're aware of that, thank you," Hermione replied tartly, and then clutched, what appeared to be, air to her chest. "Come on, let's get back to the castle. It will rain soon."

"Well learned in potions and in divination," Harry announced, leading her back. "Hogwarts is lucky to have her."

"One of these days you're going to have to introduce me to your imaginary friend, Harry," she drawled in amusement. "Will you stay for supper? I absolutely refuse to leave the grounds. Reporters and all that."

"If you'll have me. I seem to be a prevalent danger to the student body."

"Maybe if you cover more of yours," she chastised, reaching over to button the top two, and then grabbed his wrists to button those as well. Harry smirked, and unbuttoned one cuff just to annoy her. "I'll go and rescue my students from Oliver. You'll..."

"Go have a talk with Dumbledore. I have a feeling I'm in for another round of Let's tell off Harry Potter."

"Is it a common experience, now?"

"Oh very," he replied with mocking joy. "I believe my ears are still bleeding from Mrs. Weasley's opinions. I hope your return is much more enjoyable than mine."

She gave a noncommittal noise. "Certainly, everybody has been much more nicer. Except for Prewett, blasted man. Sends owls once or twice a day, asking if I heard anything from Draco."

Harry observed her with an unchanging expression, and Hermione instinctively felt this was a bad thing.

"Shall I say something to him, Hermione?" he asked casually.

"No," she answered immediately and sternly. "No, nothing at all. It would be terrible if we were to lose a minister."

"Good god, Hermione, I didn't say kill him. Just speak with him." He kept his tone so innocent and without suggestion that she could find no reason to quarrel with him. All she managed another cautious refusal, and watched with ever mounting suspicion as he shrugged his shoulders, resigning to the matter.

They had just emerged from the last of the forest's clutches, and they paused to observe the striking image of Hogwarts Castle, windows glowing with candle and firelight, against the menacing and lead heavy clouds crowding around it. Her place of profession appeared like a resplendent sanctuary.

And, once, it had been.

"I do hate how much it's changed," murmured Harry as they walked towards the main entrance. "I mean, obviously, it couldn't remain the same, but I didn't expect it to..."

"Change," she finished with an understanding nod. "Still, one does have to admit that some of the differences aren't all bad. You did enjoy that rock, after all."

"It was not a rock," he sneered. "It was my mountain."

"Of course." Hermione paused and leaned against one closed door. "You know, you have Draco to thank for that."

"Excuse me?"

"Draco. That was the rock, the rock where...well, I remembered it. When I was,..." Hermione did not want to introduce words like "captured" or "kidnaped" into the conversation. It made Draco sound so horribly...realistic.

Thankfully, Harry understood before she was forced to finish. "Oh...shouldn't have touched it, then. Contaminated evidence and all that. Should I report it to the—"

"Harry," she interrupted. "Stop it."

He nodded, not at all looking sorry for his mocking tone, and observed the darkening heavens. "Any other changes," he asked swiftly, hating the sudden quiet. "Besides the landscape, the new purview of the prefects—"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't recall neither you nor Ron ordering a professor and company to relocate," he muttered. He threw his hands to the air, as if to exclaim "Such disrespectful children!"

"I assume those man hating security devices have been installed on the girl lavatory doors?"

"Man hating?" Hermione repeated, feigning indignation. "They keep the girls safe."

"They keep the girls' _secret_ safe."

"Which is?"

"How much better the female loo is better than the male counterpart."

Hermione gasped, and hit Harry's arm. "Not true. We have equal but separate lavatories."

"You could eat off the floor of the girls' loo."

"And the boys loo?" she challenged.

"I wouldn't urinate on it."

"Luckily, they have special depositories for that."

Harry smiled, and eased onto the door next to her. "Moaning Myrtle still flooding the halls?"

She shook her head. "New plumbing, Harry. Besides, she's not as moody as she used to be. Though...the sight of you might send her into hysterics."

He snorted and did not reply.

Hermione straightened and moved to stand before him. "Is there any girl, Harry?"

Harry looked around him, possibly hoping that there was another Harry present, but Hermione flicked his ear to regain his attention. He sighed heavily. "I spoke to Ginny."

"And?"

"Well..." He frowned, and scratched his head. "It was more like she spoke to me. More like she spoke _at_ me, really...had a lot to say, that Ginny."

"And?"

"We're officially broken up," he told her frankly, and without remorse.

"What were you before?"

"On a break...I think. A few weeks before...well, the end of all things, we had decided to put our relationship on hiatus, as it was far too distracting to maintain. And, well, after I left...sorta left things up in the air, I suppose. I don't think she appreciated that." Harry rubbed his neck. He had never been particularly open about his relationship to anybody. If things were extraordinarily rotten, Harry would discuss it with Ron, who knew most about Ginny. Speaking to a girl about another girl felt eerily like...treason.

"But now," he began with sarcastic cheer, "we're officially broken. Oh, and, for the record, she dumped me. Also, for the record, I'm an indescribable bastard, despite the fact that she spent a long time describing how much of a bastard I am."

"Hmm. I always figured you only a prick, and not so much of a bastard."

"Thank you ever so much. So there, that answers your question. No girl at the moment."

"Even with your 'I am Neo the irresistable' look?"

"I was hoping in the wizarding world, nobody would notice the similarities."

"Not likely," Hermione replied. "So...what's the news with Poppy?"

Harry suddenly bore a long-suffering expression. "Calling me every bloody day to ask how you are, I don't know why the hell you gave her my number and her children are utterly—hang on. Why do you ask?" He did not give her an opportunity to answer. With a grossly accusatory demeanor, Harry exploded.

"No. No. No, and, besides...no. No!" He paused, bit his lip and emitted a strong and rumbling, "No!"

She tried to speak up, convey her apologies, but—

"No!" That was a whiny one.

"Harry..."

"Noooo." That was a wavering one.

"If you just..."

"Nononono." That was a horrified series.

"I am so glad that our time apart has so improved your vocabulary," she cut in impatiently.

Harry straightened, considerably calmer, and tapped her nose. "No," he added, for good measure. Then, proving that he had not been placed under some sort of repetition spell, Harry said, "Why would you ever think such a thing?"

"Well, she does have an alliterative name," Hermione reasoned.

"A what?"

"You know...Poppy Porpington. She's already fit into one of your criteria."

"How..."

"Let's look at your romantic conquests thus far," Hermione said primly, straightening her posture into teacher mode. "Moaning Myrtle—"

"I was not conquesting her!" Harry pointed out desperately. "She was conquesting me!"

"That's not a word Harry," Hermione said sternly.

"Besides, her first name isn't Moaning," Harry continued. "No parents are cruel enough to name their child 'Moaning.' Then again, considering what a little cry baby she turned out to be, her upbringing might be to blame—"

"Cho Chang," Hermione added to the list. "Don't argue, Harry, for that is an alliteration and that is her real name."

"May I point out that things ended horribly, horribly wrong with that girl?"

"No, you mayn't."

"So you get to use fake words when I can't?" he whined.

"Parvati Patil..."

"One bloody date! One bloody date, and suddenly a man is romantically linked to one alliterated woman!"

Somehow, he managed to make "alliterated" to sound like "scarlet."

"Luna Lovegood," Hermione spoke up. Harry stiffened with disbelief.

"I was never with Luna Lovegood!" Hermione rolled her eyes.

"I noticed her sending cow eyes your way."

"That's the way she was born, Hermione, and it isn't kind of you to point out that defect," he said with a sniff. Hermione hit his arm again for good measure.

Then, Harry argued, "Besides, I dated Ginny, and Ginny's name was not Ginnerva Gweasley."

"Yes, but things ended horribly, horribly, horribly wrong with that girl. Perhaps, if you strayed back toward alliteration, relationships—"

"Would only hold two 'horribly's' instead of three," Harry finished scornfully. "Thanks, but no thanks. Poppy Porpington alone is enough to make a grown men run away, but her children..." Here, Harry shivered. "Utter and complete monsters. Need I remind you what I faced during the War?"

"I'd rather you didn't." Hermione herself had met the children only once, and she could not deny that they had an air of mischief around them. "Well, I have a rather pretty student named Frederica Fringleton."

"She didn't swoon today, by any chance, did she?"

"Ah, no, definitely not. She's the one who commented on your 'cute arse.'"

"She has good taste then, that one."

"You didn't let me finish. She's the one who commented on your 'cute arse,' and then proceeded to list the many things—some of them painful, mind you—she'd like to do to aforementioned body part."

Harry appeared to be in heavy reconsideration. "That _would_ explain the deduction."

Hermione smiled, and placed her hand onto the handle. "I'll see you later, then, Harry?"

"Of course. We'll eat in your chambers? After all the interrogating I'll get from Dumbledore and Lupin, and all the scolding and yelling I'll get from McGonagall and Hagrid...I'll definitely need a quiet place."

Hermione smiled, nodded, and crossed the threshold, Harry close behind her. As they parted ways, Harry grabbed her sleeve.

"By the way...do they still ask about the patches on the stair case?" Harry grinned.

Hermione managed, just barely, to resist returning his smile. "You know they do. And don't encourage anything."

Harry laughed as he left her, claiming to be the epitome of good behavior.

Hermione found Oliver Wood dipping the sweeping end of a broom into one of her student's cauldrons.

"Oliver," she issued warningly. Oliver—and most of the class, she noticed—jumped at the tone of her voice. "Oliver, whatever are you doing?"

"He's taught us how to make a weight lightening potion, ma'am," an over eager Hufflepuff said.

"Did he mention that broom tampering is illegal?" Hermione asked them as she yanked the broom out.

"It's not as if I have to mention it," Oliver argued. "Everybody knows."

"Thank you, Professor Wood," Hermione sighed. "Everybody, thank Professor Wood." The class chanted their gratitude with a unified monotone. "I'm sure you have much more important things to do."

"Not really," Oliver muttered, grabbing his broom. For a moment, Hermione pitied Oliver, who was so used to daily strenuous activities, now stuck behind a classroom desk. "Is Harry still around?"

The very name sent her otherwise silent classroom into titters. "He's in a meeting with Dumbledore, at the moment, but I'll send him to you later, if you like."

"No need, I'll find him. Bye, everybody."

When they returned his farewell, Hermione noticed that some sincerely expressed their sorrow. She wasn't that much of a troll, was she?

Well...perhaps she had been curt, lately. And, when she wasn't curt, she tended to express her dissatisfaction with too much words. Not to mention that, with the smallest hint that a student did not know the lesson, she assigned homework the length of the Great Wall of China. Hermione sat at her desk suddenly.

She was worse than Snape!

At least Snape showed some kindness now and then—true, it had been to Slytherins, but still. At least he overlooked some mistakes—again, it was only the case of Slytherins, but that was only to be assumed. At least Snape was not an overly emotional, pregnant bitch.

Hermione sat back, suddenly forlorn with the new revelation. How could she have sunk so low? How did she acquire the talent of alienating students with so little effort? Even McGonagall, with her stern and no nonsense manner, managed to endear herself to students. She couldn't even remember that one prefect's name! Teachers were supposed to know their student's names! She had been so busy worrying about this and that that she hadn't really focused on the here and now.

_Oh my god!_ Hermione thought. _Are these tears!_

_Oh well_, she thought a moment later, with quickly rising nonchalance, _we'll just blame that on hormones._

"Er...Professor?" one boy prompted cautiously. Hermione looked up, absently wiping her eyes.

"Yes?"

"The lesson?"

"Oh." Hermione looked down at her lesson plan. She looked up.

Suddenly, school wasn't so very important any more.

"It's my birthday," she told them abruptly. "That's why Harry's come. I'm nineteen today."

The class was understandably shocked by their professor's random frankness, and nobody dared to respond in fear that it was some sort of test.

Hermione's heart sank. She did not know to what extent she had scared them, but guessed it was reparable.

"In light of that," she continued, rising to stand in front of the desk and then to lean against it. "I'd say that merits a sort of catching up day, don't you think?"

Her students exchanged uneasy glances. "Is 'catching up day' a sort of new potion?" one girl asked suspiciously.

Hermione swallowed a snappish reply. The only reason they were so reluctant to not work was because she had made sure of it.

"Actually, it's a day during which you may catch up. You know, on subjects in which you've fallen behind."

The elaborate explanation was met with cold silence. Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes. "Yes, even this class."

Then she spent an inordinate amount of time trying to heave herself backwards, in an effort to sit on "furniture not meant to be sitting on," to quote Mrs. Weasley. After some struggle, Hermione found one seventh year Slytherin standing directly before her.

"Do you need help?"

Funny, Hermione noticed as she nodded and the boy easily lifted her to her chosen seat as if she were Flitwick, but she had never heard those words so far, at least from students. Whenever she waddled her way down the corridors, arms full of parchment and books, not one student offered a hand. Perhaps, she suggested inwardly, it had something to do with her unfriendly attitude?

The boy—Fraser Hallivand—settled her promptly on the desk, and then, much to her bewilderment, leaned forward, hands propped on either side of her.

"Anything else you need?"

This was asked with a rather insinuating expression and a honeyed tone. Over his shoulder, Hermione thought she saw some boys watching the exchange with competitive interest.

Much too puzzled to be anything other than truthful, Hermione asked, "Are you flirting with me, Fraser?"

Fraser, completely shocked that she had stated things so baldly, "I...uh...no, of course not, Professor Granger."

"Just because I'm suddenly relaxed does not give you leave to flirt with me," she continued, her voice growing chiding.

"I know," he said weakly, returning to his seat quickly.

"And it's beneath you, Fraser," she continued animatedly, "to feign interest simply to gain my favour—"

"It's not feigned," Fraser interrupted indignantly. An embarrassed red infused over his aristocratic features. "I mean," he faltered under Hermione's militant eye, "that, uh, we're—"

"Don't include me," his male neighbor said suddenly.

"What they're trying to say," industrious Georgette interrupted airily, never looking up from her work, "is that you're very pretty, and it's no wonder that Harry Potter is smitten with you."

The students, all of whom she had believed to be poring over their work, suddenly looked up to see her reaction.

And her reaction was...torn. Was this sort of intimacy forbidden between students, or was it just the level she needed to vanquish her students' obvious fear of her?

"Oh," Hermione said, slightly mollified. "Oh...okay." This was awkward, now that the class obviously did not want to finish their work and she did not want to speak of that. Still, she would have to make a choice.

"Harry isn't smitten with me," she denied immediately. Much to her disconcertion, Hermione saw that a good number of them had nodded with obvious skepticism. "In fact," she continued impetuously, "he's smitten with a muggle."

Squeals and squawks followed this definitely untrue statement, and Hermione abruptly wished for a muzzle.

"But that's not the point," Hermione said airily. "The point is...er...well..." Was there a point? If there had been, she couldn't find it any more. "Well, was this the class that asked me about the patches on the Gryffindor girls dormitories stair well?"

Their answer was negative, but still, they politely told her, they would like to know any way.

"Continue your work," she prompted, and they all began to scribble mindlessly. Feeling safe with the knowledge that their eyes were elsewhere, she began.

"Well...

xoxox

"_Ron, I need to study," Hermione said irritably, scooting her chair farther away from his as the students milled around the Gryffindor common room before bed. Supper had been tremendously exciting, and Ron had participated in a Slytherin-Gryffindor-Ravenclaw brawl—Quidditch related, of course—and now had excess energy. Energy he wanted to spend with Hermione._

"_You don't need to study," he pointed out petulantly. "You want to study. Any further studying and...and...your brain will explode."_

"_A scientific theory that lacks any sort of serious contemplation," she replied airily, head bent over her book. "Besides, studying is a far more important than the activity you have in mind."_

"_Excuse me if I want to spend some quality time with my girlfriend," Ron muttered. He had been_ _sprinkling the phrase "my girlfriend" in his conversations recently, and his friends had been rather indulgent on his annoying habit in light of the fact that Ron had only snagged said girl four weeks earlier, and had first kissed her three week earlier, and had had four rows and four apologies in the last two weeks._

_Hermione did not respond, and only continued to summarize the text. This was, Hermione knew that Ron knew, not a required summarization, and only her own, personal endeavor to better familiarize herself with the material._

"_Come to think of it," Ron said suddenly, "I haven't even kissed you a second time."_

"_The first time was very satisfactory," Hermione told him primly._

"_Oh, I'm not denying that," Ron replied with an impish grin. "It's just that, well, we ought to have a second round."_

_That was enough to stop her busy hand, and cause her to whip her gaze to him. "Second round?" she echoed._

"_Yes. You know. Kissing."_

"_Why do you refer to it as a second round?" Hermione asked him, slowly closing the book._

"_I dunno."_

"_Why do you refer to it as merely a second part in a series of events, in which two parties are opponents?"_

_Now, Ron realised he had fallen into a bit of a trap. True, Hermione was normally a very level headed girl, not prone to sensitivities and dramatics, but romance had an odd effect on her. Not as odd effect it had on him, thankfully, otherwise they would both be a pair of sobbing idiots who constantly offended each other._

"_I did not mean it that way," he quickly clarified. "It's merely an expression, Hermione, and you know it."_

_It seemed to placate her. "Still," she sniffed, reviewing what she had just written, "you could have phrased it in another romantic manner."_

"_How could I phrase 'it' at all," Ron countered, tired of her cool criticism, "if 'it' so seldom occurs?"_

"_Oh really?" Hermione asked icily, gathering her materials. "So, simply because I am concerned with my entire future, you find it a solid reason to complain like a spoiled child?"_

"_I'm concerned about my future as well!" Ron shot back, and then paused. "I mean, our future. Yet, somehow, amidst my scholarly missions, I managed to sneak a kiss in."_

"_Sneak? Ron, that was hardly 'sneaking.'"_

"_Whatever," he huffed, growing annoyed by the ridiculous conversation. _

"'_Whatever' is not an argument. In fact, it barely qualifies as a reply!"_

"_Well, what would you like me to say? You obviously don't like me flirting with you quietly!" he countered as he watched his girlfriend push away from the table. "Perhaps a more honest approach is in order. Hello Hermione, tell me, can you pull your face out of that book so I may snog with it?"_

"_Ron, don't be an arse," she snapped._

"_It's very difficult when you're setting such a good example," Ron retorted impatiently, standing now as well. _

"_Well," Hermione gasped, just as the others were beginning to notice their latest spat. "I never!"_

"_That's right!" Ron crowed triumphantly. "You never! Exactly! You never kiss me, you never hold my hand, you never show any indication that you like me at all!"_

"_Given your recent behaviour," Hermione hissed, striding as close to him as possible with a wagging finger in his face, "I'd say I have good reason."_

"_All right," he admitted heatedly with a roll of his eyes, "the recent altercations have been less than honourable—"_

"_Six, Ron, six!" She held up the same number of fingers, in case he did not know the meaning of the single syllable. "Six stupid fights because of the stupid Quidditch rivalries. I've never—"_

"_And there goes that phrase again," Ron said with false wonder. "My, what Hermione Granger 'never' does could fill a train station."_

"_Or the space between your ears," she suggested snidely. Then, suddenly aware of the unnatural hush of the common room, Hermione lowered her voice. "Look, I am sorry that I have not been the most...extroverted girlfriend—"_

"_I don't want you to be an extroverted girlfriend," he argued, lowering his voice as well. Still, despite their subdued volumes, they had not lost their intensity. "I just want some sign that tells me that I haven't been dumped yet! For Merlin's sake, Hermione. We're a month into our relationship, and I've done all the work!"_

"_Done all the work!" Hermione repeated angrily. "Done all the work!"_

"_Yes," he bit off. "I'm the one who asked you to Hogsmeade. I'm the one who's made an utter fool of himself on several occasions to please you. I'm the one who kissed you."_

"_Yes, but I didn't force you," Hermione countered reasonably. "Besides, you make an utter fool of yourself with or without me as a motivation."_

"_There you go, contributing to this happy relationship," Ron sighed. "The least you could allow me is a second kiss." Ron crossed his arms and glared down at her. "In fact, you should be the instigator, considering I risked Trelawny's wrath the first time."_

_Hermione, quite tired with his reasoning and, truthfully, quite piqued with all the good points he had made, replied through clenched teeth, "You will receive that second kiss, Ron, when you've done something worthy to get one."_

_Then, with her most dignified air, she turned and marched straight to her room. Ron had made an attempt to follow, but, of course, was thwarted by the stairs, thus leaving her a night of stewing._

_The next day, they had not spoken to each other at all. It had taken all of Hermione's will power not to look at him as he pestered every boy in sight for something. Some looked amused, some looked confused, and Neville had loudly exclaimed, "Are you kidding? My grandma gave me those."_

_Feeling very empty and hopelessly sad, Hermione retired to bed early that evening. The day felt oddly incomplete without Ron's hugs and Ron's persistent hand holding. Her arms ached, now that she had no boy to carry her books for her. By the time midnight arrived, sleep had yet to make an appearance._

_And then, lying very still and mournful in her bed, Hermione heard a peculiar noise._

_It was a grunt, though that was not strange. And then there was a sigh, though that noise was not uncommon either. Then there was a thud and a whiny "ow," which, of course, were not foreign sounds in the girls dormitories._

_What caught Hermione's attention was that it was a male grunt, a male sigh, and a male whiny "ow." _

_Then she heard the door unlock—a noise that had no gender—and Ronald Weasley limped in._

"_Ron!"_

_He quickly put his finger to his lips, and, without invitation, dragged his feet to her bed. Then, with such an air of urgency that Hermione did not argue, they drew the curtains and set a silencing spell on their refuge._

"_Ron!" she said again._

"_Hello, Hermione," he said cheerfully, grabbing his foot. Hermione looked down distractedly and then faced him to interrogate his presence when..._

_She looked towards his foot again._

_It looked rather like a potato._

"_Ron?"_

"_Are you always so eloquent at night?" Ron joked, and began to peel off one sock. Hermione was silent, anxious to see the condition of his misshapen appendage. Ron stripped off one sock to reveal...another sock. _

"_What on earth—"_

"_Hold on a sec, please," he requested, this time taking two socks off at a time. "It's cutting off circulation, and I want to save the foot."_

_In exasperation, she took hold of his other ankle and, with one vicious yank, tore off ten pairs of socks, all different colours and materials. Ron howled with pain._

"_You probably broke my toe!" he complained, checking the big one gingerly. "And that's my favourite one!"_

"_Who on earth picks a favourite toe?" Hermione demanded incredulously._

"_Well, it wouldn't do to hate it, would it? Not when it's threatening to break off," Ron said reasonably._

"_Ron," she sighed, running her hands through her hair. In truth, she was flattening it a bit, hoping that she didn't appear too bed rumpled. "Ron, why are you in my room wearing ten pairs of socks on each foot?"_

"_Because I lost the other eleven climbing the stairs," Ron responded promptly. "Er...rather...the slide."_

"_What?" Hermione was not finding his explanation at all enlightening. _

"_Well, I didn't know how many socks I'd need, exactly, so I used all of mine and then took some of Harry's, and then Seamus donated to the cause—"_

"_Cause? What cause—Ron? What is all this about?"_

_Hermione watched as Ron's sharply shaped face slowly light up with a wide smile. "About proving my worthiness, of course."_

_Hermione smiled back, though not quite certain why she was doing so. Maybe because it always made her heart skip a beat whenever Ron was so handsomely beatific._

"_What do you mean?" she asked gently, scooting closer._

_His hand reached out to tug a curl playfully. "Well...I wanted to continue our talk last night. And, then, Colin, as wise as they come, pointed out the impossibility of that plan by pointing out the impossibility of a boy on the girls dormitory stairs. And so, I came up with the brilliant idea of proving my worth by overcoming the impossible."_

"_You came up the stairs?" Hermione concluded dumbly._

"_Yes."_

"_To prove your worth?"_

"_Yes." She hadn't thought it possible, but somehow Ron appeared to grow happier._

"_But Ron...I never doubted your worth. If I ever had a doubt of your worth, I wouldn't love you like I do."_

_Ron sat back with a slump. "Oh...I knew that, I think. But...well...it did sound awfully like a challenge, Hermione. And I can't resist your challenges."_

_Hermione shook her head, unable to suppress her smile. She was touched—truly and undeniably touched. Rarely did she feel so sentimental that she could not verbally express herself, and, even rarer, did she feel the urge to kiss Ron silly. And yet, now, he managed to draw forth both emotions._

"_How did you do it then?" she asked, scooting closer still._

_If he noticed, Ron was too pleased to comment on it._

"_Permanent sticking charms," he answered simply. "I simply set my foot down on one place, placed the charm on the sock, and then slipped out of it when I had to take my next step. It was all very simple...except when I fell, which I did a lot. And when I slipped...which I also did quite a lot. And walking on regular floors with ten pairs of socks is very tricky business—"_

_Ronald Weasley, of course, was not the handsomest boy in the school...but, at this very moment, Hermione was ready to wager he gave the other boys very close competition. His cowlicks were begging to be touched, and his blue, wrinkled pyjamas looked adorably dashing on his tired and bruised body._

_There was not much else to add, which was fortunate, for Hermione's lips had interrupted his delineating explanation. She kissed and kissed and kissed him again, so softly and shyly that Ron barely moved, barely breathed, in fear of ruining her generous mood. But...after one firm, commanding kiss, Ron's arms_ _somehow found themselves clutching her body to his._

_It was only after she had lost her balance, pushed him backward and landed on top of him, that Ron weakly protested._

"_I should go," he whispered regretfully. His tone was the same used when a condemned man said, "I'll just jump into that volcano now."_

"_Yes," Hermione agreed unhappily, not removing herself from his chest. "You should."_

"_It's not that I want to," he began, focusing on her mouth, the temptation glaringly obvious in his blue gaze. "I...just..."_

"_Don't want to ruin my reputation," she finished with knowing sigh. Still, instead of moving, she merely clasped her hands on his chest, and then laid her chin down on top of her interlaced fingers. "That's why, isn't it?"_

"_Isn't what?" Ron, apparently, had lost all train of thought after she had licked her lips. _

"_The reason," Hermione continued patiently, fingers tracing one unruly wisp of hair. "The reason you have to go?"_

"_Have to—oh yes, I have to go!" Ron suddenly remembered. "We have to—I mean, I have to—"_

_He tried to gently slide Hermione's petite form off of him, but she would have none of it. "But," she continued forcefully, "they will find your socks in no time, and they will deduce that there has been a boy asking for socks, and they will be well aware of who you were visiting at well past midnight."_

_Ron's eyes widened at the very probable suggestion. _

"_So, if I gave the smallest damn about my reputation," Hermione added with a rather forceful push of to his shoulders, effectively pinning him down, "you should go. But, considering that it is already well thrown into question, we might as well make the best of the opportunity."_

"_Hermione," he began tentatively._

"_What? You can't possibly tell me you don't want to spend the entire night kissing?"_

"_And a great deal more than that, I assure you," he muttered under his breath. "Still, I don't think it's right. I shouldn't be taking advantage of you like this. Plus, what will the other girls say when I emerge from your room come morning?"_

_She smiled at his failing attempt at chivalry. "I'll let you go at three."_

_Ron raised an eyebrow, apparently not too terrified at the thought of being held hostage. "Promise?"_

"_Absolutely."_

"_And you won't take advantage of me," Ron added, with narrowed eyes._

"_Only if I fancy the idea," Hermione teased. "Besides, you've far too much honour to let me even unbutton your top."_

"_Libertine," he taunted._

"_Prude," she returned. _

"_Three o' clock, sharp," he reminded her as she swooped down for another kiss._

"_Of course," she said against his lips._

_It was a shame that both had fallen asleep by two fifty nine. Of course, neither cared very much._

xoxox

"So you cut the socks off," one student surmised.

"Or, as much as we could," Hermione confirmed. "But, with permanent sticking charms...well, let's just say that Ron's memory shall live on and on...or, at least until they replace the stairs."

"Damn," one Hufflepuff boy swore. "I heard all sorts of rumours about that...but I had no idea—"

"Bloody brilliant," Ramsey said in admiration. "Absolutely brilliant."

"Why didn't I think of that?" Fraser sighed. He turned his hazel graze to Hermione. "I suppose they've installed preventative measures for that as well?"

"Yes," Hermione answered, feeling rather proud of her Ron.

"Damn the Weasleys," Conner muttered rather vehemently. Before Hermione could react, he met her gaze directly. "There's nothing to accomplish now that that family has gone and done everything there is to do at Hogwarts! The twins left that swamp and the pool, Ron's managed to make sure there are preventative measures on every female sanctuary, and Ginny—"

"Ginny is responsible for that crater near the green house...oh, oops. You didn't know that, did you?"

"There's no crater," Georgette argued.

"You mean that fairy dip? The one with all the flowers and toadstools—"

Hermione interrupted the student—whose name Hermione endeavored to remember by the week's end, "Yes, well, of course, we had to cover it up with something. It wouldn't do to have a charred crater in the middle of the campus, now, would it?"

"Damn," Conner said again.

"Much as your envy of the clan flatters them," Hermione reproved gently, "do try to curb your swearing. There is, after all, the presence of ladies to consider." Conner opened his mouth to apologise when Hermione shook her head. "It's a moot point any way. Class is dismissed."

During the small, intimate birthday supper hours later, Hermione was relieved to find Worry Number Five was no longer a problem. Harry assured her that, now that he was a part time volunteer with the Ministry, he and the Weasleys were on speaking terms, whether the Weasleys liked it or not.

"Bill's even offered to help me renovate Number Twelve," Harry mentioned as she walked him to the door.

"You're renovating?" Harry nodded as he stepped away from the castled shelter and into the dull drizzle.

"Would you be averse to any more surprise visits?" he asked cautiously. Hermione smiled. "I mean, of course, we'll write, but...should I ever wish to call?"

"Some warning would be nice," Hermione admitted, wishing she had an umbrella to give him. "But I doubt such a little thing like courtesy could bar Harry Potter from what he wants."

"Especially since there is a new pool I have yet to try out."

Hermione sighed. "I am trying to hint to the Gryffindors to allow the other students to enjoy it."

"It's so like you to ruin fun," Harry laughed.

"Shut up. Go away now, I have papers to grade."

"I'll only leave if you promise to spend a weekend with me. Next week?"

"No, Harry, really. I have a project to prepare for—"

"Weekend after?"

"Harry, it's my birthday. You should at least stop badgering me for one—"

"So, this weekend is your only available one, then? Good. I'll pick you up Friday. Happy birthday!"

Two visits from Harry Potter in one week. Hermione shook her head as she watched him leave. _The student body may never recover._

As Hermione made her way back to her chambers, she reflected that there was a noticeable change in Harry, or, as some students had already dubbed him, the Gryffindor God. In the past, she had always known Harry to have some sort of goal; passing classes, defeating Voldemort, keeping his friends safe...but now. Well, now, besides the task of finding Malfoy, he seemed sort of...aimless. What was he planning to do, Hermione wondered, after he had accomplished what he planned to accomplish? Hermione highly doubted Harry planned as far as February. True, he had enough money to live the life of a careless, handsome ne'er do well. But it didn't suit Harry to be so bereft of responsibilities. He needed a purpose, that much was certain.

But all thoughts of Harry and his dissolute life style vanished upon her return to her room, where Crookshanks was lolling amongst the lively ribbon, with which the twins had used to decorate their present. Hermione thought it a silly decorative effort any way, considering the gift had been another credit certificate for their store.

It was a simple rose, nothing overly extravagant or extremely thoughtful. It sat on her desk, and, for one horrified moment, Hermione thought that, perhaps, one of her students had found a way into her room. But, she recognised the slanted cursive written on the leaves. Draco had not even bothered to remove the thorns.

With her touch, the half opened rose bloomed completely, and Hermione frowned. _Happy_, one leaf said. _Birthday_, the other leaf finished with a flicky scrawl.

"Weren't you standing guard?" Hermione complained to her cat, who, cowardly lion that he was, only looked away with disinterest.

Still, as piqued as she was that Draco had managed to thwart her wishes and the Hogwarts defense systems, Hermione found her Invisible Book, after much effort, it can be assured, and pressed the flower in between the pages.

It was only a silly little flower. It was trite, unimaginative gift to a man who supposedly loved her endlessly.

But still. It meant that, despite their disagreement, he still found her lovable enough to risk secrecy. It meant that he was still safe, thank god, and in well enough circumstance to purchase trinkets. It meant that he hadn't lost a bit of his confidence, that wonderful Draco-ness that nobody else but herself could love.

Should she tell Harry? If Draco were to give her his location, or hints of his future plans? It would have been the right thing to do. For Harry's sake, for Ron's sake, for her own integrity's sake...

No. No, she would not. It was not sacrificing her integrity. It was more like...making the virtue more flexible.

Hermione snorted at her thoughts as she sat at her desk. When in the company of villains–or, in this case, in love with one–women had the habit of stretching and twisting facts into the prettiest pieces of illogicalities.

For, despite how wrong it felt to keep such a secret from her loved ones, it felt even more wrong to break Draco's trust. True, he hadn't been the model of gallantry the past few days, and, thus, had lost any right of normal relationship defaults...

But, that was Draco, she supposed. He gave and took–usually taking more than what was due to him, and giving an unsatisfactory compensation. It was all a matter of opinion whether or not his "compensation" was equal reimbursement to all the trouble he had caused her.

As she corrected the papers—with a great deal less severity than usual—Hermione watched as Crookshanks tried to reach for the flattened rose, the invisible pages and cover in his way.

She was drawing close to the end of her satisfactory nineteenth birthday. She planned to accomplish a great deal before her twentieth.

And one of the first accomplishments would be to find Draco, and convince him to return home.

xoxox

**And, I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,**

**That thus so cleanly I myself can free.**

**Michael Drayton**


	17. Come on Home

**I know, I know, I'm very certain you all are very tired of these silly, general notes. But this one is quite serious.**

**I do not enjoy self-advertising. You like your story enough to push it on others? Email me. You like another story enough to push it on others? Email me as well. My reviews page is not a bulletin board. Unless I like you, or you show the slightest interest in my story as well, do not write an ad, or I will verbally kick your ass, as some self-advertising idiots have already found out. **

**On a lighter note, I watched the Mtv Music Awards in Europe, and hot damn am I jealous of anybody who attended!**

**And on a more related note, the format is a bit different from the norm, but only because I didn't want to bore you with a chapter specifically narrating three months.**

**oli: **Oh! Is "Purple Orange Commando Pumpkin" me? Because it's sadly too long to put on a license plate.

GASP! You did not just insult the handsome, brooding, almost-evil-but-still-handsome prince! He's dreamy and you know it! Didn't he resist the evil wiles of evil Sylvia and evil power and evil medieval tights all for true lurve!? Yes he did, so he's ten times better than evil, insane, psycho, I-like-to-bite-little-boys'-necks (Timmy! Remember Timmy?!) Hunter Redfern.

But I bet I know what we could agree on. Ash. Now there's loveliness.

I knew you'd appreciate that Australia bit. Inspired by watching Croc Hunter Diaries; the Early years and Kylie Kwong.

Wow! Didn't notice that Gryffindor God was an alliteration! Amazing how things work out, ain't it? Any who, so glad you noticed all the effort I put into Hermione's teaching career and the school itself. Having once planned to be a teacher myself (fool that I am) I only pictured myself in the situation; of being surprised when students disobey (which I was, during some field work. I was never so disrespectful as to interrupt a teacher!) and being to tired to move (but that's just me being lazy!)

You have to be 18 to vote. So that's no excuse for me. But, as I've said before, it made no difference in my state. And, though I shudder at the thought of continuing, I shall persevere, ma capitaine!

**paul is dead: **I love Neo, and I do think he's irresistible, and I think that irresistibility is awesome, so I guess we're all on the same page. :0)

You think you have time on your hands? Who's the computer/book nerd who thought of this novel length fic? (sheepish...)

I wish I could lie and say that there will be Sock Happiness for the rest of the story (though, come to think of it, what a weird thing to lie about) but you're right. Won't last long. Still, fun while it lasted, huh?

Thanks!

**flea: **Heylo, I'm glad you like the long chapters–as tedious as they can get. And, while I do doubt the merit of that reviewer's complaint, I do like to know where I can improve my stories, so calling them an "idiot" would only scare constructive critics away (so I'll just insult them in my head.)

**Fizzie-lizzie: **Hi there! God, I miss vacation. Christmas break seems forever and a day away...

I'm glad you liked that last chapter. People seemed to, but I can't fathom why. Oh, I hope that the story you read before this chapter was a good story (I hate reading a story, finding out it's crap, and then regretting the time wasted on it) but I also hope that the last chapter was better written as well. Can't it be both? :0)

All right, I'll add your "long chapter" vote to the rather large pile. The "short chapter" vote seems pitifully small by comparison...

And in response to your other review...yes, it's strange, isn't it? I claim to love him, and yet I put him in the most horrible situations...

Thanks for reviewing! This chapter is a bit different, but I hope you'll still like it.

**Monkeystarz: **Can anything be boringly long, you ask?

Having experienced, and then consequently skipped, many lectures, I have to say, yes, definitely.

No need to beg for forgiveness. Compared to brownies, of course my little story takes second priority!

Thanks! I think I've received enough gentle and then scary reviews that will definitely make me not shorten the chapters!

Aw! I have "Micky Mouse Christmas" too! I watch it every year! Any ways, it was very nice of you to not interrupt the disney fun of it all!

Good ol' Mount Everest. I would have never believed it would have been mentioned in one of my reviews.

Of course I'll excuse the grammatical and spelling errors. While I'm nitpicky enough to proofread my friends' text-messages and emails, I'm not so high handed that I'll proofread my reviews! After all, it's the sentiment that counts! And, hooray for poodles!

In response to your review of Lasting Lies: If I had it my way, the entire Harry Potter Series would be re-written to portray the oh-so-lovable Ron and Hermione romance. Then, of course, the title doesn't match, but I would be too happy to care. Any way, I was very, very flattered to learn that it is only my RW/HG fics you like, but, really "Insanity" by quitesirius (it's in my favorites) is quite enjoyable. Not too fluffy, which most Ron and Hermione fics are...

All right! Enough of my converting ways!

In response to your review of A Whispered Why: If you specifically look for Draco/Hermione, General, Pg-13, you'd find it. It's a Draco/Hermione, mostly because the only way I could think of Draco "winning" her would be cheating. Thanks!

**Dastardly Snail: **Yay! I love that song; glad to know somebody likes it too! He takes another home and then to find me waiting for him!

As I said before, I'm not angry with you for putting that info up. Actually, a very small, very mean part of me would enjoy the scenario of her inbox stuffed with hatemail...

Any ways, thanks for commenting on the permanent adjustments contributed by the Gryffindors. I suppose it was a tremendously silly little aspect, but I couldn't help it. I've always wondered what happened to that little not-so-secret chamber. Thanks for the review!

**Catcher: **Well, obviously, the link did not show up. So, in the spirit of curiosity, I googled it. Then I found it on adultfanfiction....and well, no thanks. I don't warm up to the very idea of Draco/Hermione to begin with, so Draco and Hermione getting their recreation on is simply out of the question...

**Bella: **Heya,

Parlez-vous français aussi? Or am I reading too much into that "tres"? Any who, very much grateful for your very cool comments.

Wish I did like Draco...or at least as much as I like Ron. That would help me know how the ending's gonna be. But I just can't. Not with all the cruelty shown in the books. Oh well.

I hate horrid spelling mistakes almost as much as I hate Mary Sues (unfortunately, those two seem to go hand in hand). I like "nonsense story lines" however (despite my mockery in chapter 5) as long as it's well written and some what self-critical. Thanks Bella!

**Brandybuckbeak: **Aw, thanks! Don't know how to say an adequate thank you for such a nice review...I won't try. Just spiritually know I appreciate it.

GAH! I love Meriodoc! I hate how they stole his lines in the movie! No fair! He solved the riddle damn it! Give him props!

I'll calm down now. Also, I love Buckbeak as well, but I don't know if he's my favorite hippogriff. I haven't been introduced to many, after all...

Damn. Another sanity murdered by my story. God help my torturous little soul!

Still, it's nice to know that I motivate people to write unusually long reviews. Makes me feel special...in the good way. As to the inspirational words...wasn't really feeling it, to tell you the truth. Kind of left uninspired until "gopher" Then my muse was revived! Thank god for zany words! Oh, and thank you for the poetry! It seems that most of my readers will end up in the asylum...maybe I'll join y'all.

Nerds must stick together! Your review made me think of this one shirt at my workplace I am determined to buy... "Talk Nerdy to Me." It shall be mine! Mwu-ha-ha-ha-ha!

**sugar n spice 522: **now, now, every body is entitled to their own opinion. It's just that the evil people should keep it to themselves! Just kidding, just kidding...

I didn't purposely made Draco jerky in the dream thing. I just tried to make him Draco.

I have thought of the possibility of making other pairings...but I'm not sure if it was possible, considering my heart would not be fully in it. Still, it'd be an interesting challenge.

Even if you took a century to review, I'll always appreciate it. Thanks for the faith!

**Onion Layers**: Hi, and thanks for jumping on the long-chapter bandwagon. No need to apologize for not reviewing; I run away from real life all the time...

Heehee...my evil plot is working. Soon, all readers everywhere will love Ronald Weasley! Mwu-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Er...ahem. Just kidding (whistles innocently). Thanks and enjoy!

**GIRL W/PNK CONVERSE: **Hi again. Wow, the honor of your long reviews continues! There's no such thing as a bad reviewer, I think...oh, except the ones who self-advertise or plagiarize...wow I rhymed! See! Good reviewers make people rhyme! Any who, thank you for giving such an honest opinion!

**otakuannie**: thanks for paragraphs. Thanks for the loverly compliment...though I seriously doubt you'd enjoy the chapters if they were one sentence long... In fact, I'm pretty sure you'd commit homicide if I were to do that...

About the flame...um...turning the other cheek on that one. It'll be like a sort of Don't ask, Don't tell situation, except a lot less controversial. Whatever you decide to send to ronluver88 is up to you (though spell checked is nice)...but, if you were to _hypothetically_ send this flame (of which I know _nothing_ about) it would be nice if you mentioned the fact that if the little brat had simply deigned to ask permission like a _decent_ writer, I would have granted it and she would have written her _**crappy**_ little expansion story without the humiliating experience of being caught. Oh, and that I noticed she didn't complete "her" story on the checkmated archive, knowing that I had already posted mine there and that website has a strict plagiarism policy so hahaha ronluver88/melty! You've been foiled!

Um...ahem...But that's all hypothetical...:0)

Dry humor...no really?

Any who, in response to your review of Lasting Lies...would it be very mean of me to say, Hooray I made you cry! Yes? Okay, I won't say it...oh, and don't worry. The strait jackets are cozily snug, I've heard.

And in response to a Whispered Why... "oh ehm gee"...heehee, you're so funny. Yes, it was DM/HG, possibly the only DM/HG I will ever write. The only way somebody would no that, however, is if they looked for specifically Draco/Hermione fanfics. I can't believe that people like it, with it being so short and everything. Thanks though!

**Athena Linborn: **Eek! Threats! All righty, all righty, no chapter butchery in the future...not if I could help it. About Harry...wow, didn't do that on purpose. All in all, I'm glad it all worked out so well. About the Slytherin crush...I bet it'll annoy the crap outta Hermione to know that Harry was right about something and she was wrong. And, finally, about the Ron and the broom...very logical, but not very bruising. True love is not true love unless some injuries is earned along the way...also, I like the idea of Ron being his clumsy oafish self while struggling up the stairs! Thanks for the review (despite the woven in threats) and I hope I shall not disappoint with chapter length again!

In response to the A Whispered Why...thanks for the review! He and She are Draco and Hermione...I suppose I was sitting around, thinking about any feasible way Draco would convince Hermione to stay with him...and cheating was the only answer that came to mind!

**whogirl: **That review was one of the nicest reviews from a non-reviewer I've ever read. I won't be silly and ask questions and try to force you to review, because I fully understand the non-reviewing attitude (being guilty of the same thing myself...sheepish) I just wanted to let you know, that, even if you do not review, I'll always appreciate you reading!

**Graysen: **Hi again! Your review gave me a healthy little bitch slap. Silly little me for stressing over inane matters such as chapter length! Of course I'll write what pleases me (but, of course, I'll hope my nice reviewers are pleased as well. I'm not completely heartless...just a little bit) and thanks for the review!

**smaloukis**: Hello, thanks for your honest response! I'm glad to know that I manage to go in-depth without drowning. I'll keep my fingers crossed to avoid that trap in the future. I disliked the idea of going on about Hermione without giving the smallest idea of what is happening to the other characters. I'm not sure I'm as eager as you are to have Ron back...you're not the one who has to correctly write that scene without turning it into shiza...Thanks again!

**midnight kisses**: Hi, and thanks for your response! Oh, and, of course, thanks for your standy-up-ness as well. While part of me may agree with your, "that's their problem" attitude, the other part is very strict and self improving. Anything to make the story better (without being too indulgent of course) is a plus. What a lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky girl that would be, who gets both Draco and Ron. Sigh...how wonderful...ahem. As wonderful as that scenario may be, I'm very certain that I don't have the necessary writing talents to make it logically possible. Sad times. :0)

The Painted Past

Chapter 17

**Although my lover lives  
In a place that I can't live**

xoxox

* * *

Mione, 

We've taken out all the walls, except for the outer shell, of course. It looks like a cave now. It's hard to keep Buckbeak out of the kitchen. Charlie's gone bald, I'll have you know. Fred's candy and the like. How's teaching? Molested any of the students yet?

* * *

September 23 

Dear Harry,

Please take note of my proper format. I've put the date, I've written a lovely heading, and, at the bottom, I will assuredly write the proper closing.

You will put up proper walls, won't you? There won't be any trees or swings or miniature Quidditch playing fields at Number Twelve the next time I come by?

I managed to convince some of the Gryffindors to invite other students to the pool. There was a problem, however. Thaddeus Bittensworth, the most unruly sixteen year old I have ever met, froze the pool when two Slytherin first years were learning to swim. It was the saddest sight, I assure you.

I'm sorry to hear of Charlie's baldness. Tell the twins for me that, if they ever threaten their brothers' handsomeness again, I will send them a howler.

Are you looking into colleges, Harry? Or is there an internship available in the Ministry? Do take advantage of these opportunities, Harry, for my sake, please.

I am appalled by your suggestion, joking or not, of molesting the students. Suppose your letter fell into the wrong hands? Parents generally do not like to hear of their children being molested in any way.

Your friend,

Hermione

* * *

September 28, 2004 

Tuesday, 14: 28, 13 seconds, 47 milliseconds

Dearest, dear, deary Hermione Jane Granger,of the Professor branch,

(Please take note that my Proper Letter Format kicks your Proper Letter Format's arse.)

Of course we won't leave Number Twelve as a gigantic cave. Sirius wouldn't have wanted that. The Quidditch field was a lovely suggestion, but it wouldn't be too difficult to catch the snitch, now would it? Never fear, we'll find something reasonable to do with the place, like fill it with penguins or something like that.

That story of a Tad Bit (I work with his uncle, also named Thaddeus, and I know for a fact that's what the family calls your student) was appalling. Any child should know how to swim by the time they're five.

Fred had nothing to do with Charlie's baldness directly. Fred gave Perce some apparently distasteful gum, and, wonderfully coordinated being that he is, Perce spit it into Charlie's hair. He decided to shave off the whole affair, and Ginny calls him a skin head.

I am interested in one internship. Tell me, what do you think of my career as a street mime? Personally, I deduce that the job outlook is very optimistic.

I concede to your point. I would not appreciate any teacher of any sort teaching anything other than the academics. By the way, you may want to list the possible punishments to Lee. He's told Fred and George about one pretty Frederica Fringleton.

By the way, there is one now pink haired (!?) Poppy Porpington who's pestering me about your condition. Since I'd rather not speak to her on any occasion (or breathe the same air as her, or live in the same nation as her, or occupy the same planet…well, you get the general idea), I've decided to let her use Hedwig to write you. Careful when you touch her letters; I suspect they're laced with some sort of biological warfare.

Your friend, confidante, hero, letter sender, and handsomest person you've ever known,

Harry James Potter, of the Unemployed Branch

* * *

September 30 

Hey Hermione!

It's Poppy! Oh, I do hope that this bird delivers this letter! The girls tortured it so while Harry explained the situation. It's absolutely absurd! A magical school that does not allow electronics? How does one survive?

The girls believe that you've gone to work at haunted castle. They'd like a picture of a ghost. I promised them you'd get one, because, surely, you'd manage.

Your friend Harry is an utter dick. I've never met anybody so rude. May I kill him, Hermione?

My neighbor's still asking for you. I've had to tell Barry that you're a lesbian, and, for some reason, he's only become more interested. Perhaps I'll just tell him you were formerly a man.

Do you know, they've cut my route in half? I believe people are becoming lactose intolerant. Try to find a spell to fix that, Hermione dearest.

Love always,

Poppy

* * *

October 2 

Hello Harry,

Since you are so busy searching for Draco, reconstructing (or is the more appropriate word 'destroying'?) Number Twelve, and building your future, I'll assume that you have not heard the latest scientific findings.

Sarcasm, Harry, causes impotence. Do keep that in mind.

The students are becoming restless. Quidditch. Already, the rivalry has caused insanity. Two of my students, best mates, mind you, have come very close to fisticuffs because of this stupid game. I wish the sport was never invented.

I made the mistake of calling Thaddeus a Tad Bit. You never mentioned that he disliked the nickname Harry. Now, everybody calls him that, and I don't believe he appreciates me very much.

And, if you insist of walking the streets, at least fall back on being a male prostitute. Nobody respects a mime, Harry, and you know it.

Tell the twins to talk to Lee. He does not take a word I say seriously. I walked in his class one day to find him making hourglass shapes in the air, with his hands. Upon questioning the matter, Professor Jordan tells me he was merely explaining the different shapes of muggles, and how very enjoyable those shapes were.

Also, try to find the time to speak to Wood. He also disregards my words of advice. True, I do not know much about flying nor Quidditch, but I know for a fact that reciting Quidditch statistics does not help the students' arithmancy lessons.

I believe I am showing, Harry. It's the strangest feeling. Nobody's commented on it yet, though.

I've heard that you are behaving less than gallantly when it comes to Poppy. Stop it. She has half a mind to kill you.

Love,

Hermione

* * *

October 2 

Dear Poppy,

Here is the picture. I don't know if you can see it very well, but his name is Peeves, and he's showing you which body part he'd like you to kiss. Charming specter, isn't he?

I'm fat, Poppy. I'm the most educated cow-witch ever. It's most unfair. If God had any sense of justice at all, he would have made the father-to-be gain weight, while we women just suffer back aches and plump feet.

Those books on pregnancy don't really give you a clue as to how it will be. I've had dreams, Poppy! Of Prince William! And I've never found him particularly handsome, and now, there is royalty invading my dreams. I can't believe how…strange I've become.

I do not appreciate you changing my sexuality and then my gender to simply put off your pervy neighbor, Poppy. But, if all else fails, tell him that my hair is a wig, and I'm completely bald. I've heard that accusation before, you know.

You needn't fear Hedwig. She'll always deliver the messages, come rain or shine. Try to give her a treat, though, whenever you can, for she is the most high handed bird I know. I hope that the decreased route does not affect your wages. I know the girls' birthday is coming up. Anything they want in particular?

Your perverted pregnant friend,

Hermione

* * *

October 7 

Fred/George/Whoever gets this,

I forgot to tell you that I'm staying here for a while. Turns out it's not a part time job, like Lupin said. I can't go back and forth all the time because fireplace traffic is tedious, my crup at my broom, and I don't wanna, so take this as a sort of notice.

Lee

* * *

October 9 

Jordan/pompous git

WHO THE HELL HAS BEEN RUNNING THE STORE WHILE WE WERE WRITING OUR BOOK FOR THE PAST MONTH?!?!?!

Fred & George

P.S. Where are you? We're going to kill you.

* * *

October 11 

Hi Hermione,

I'm going to share some of my valuable knowledge as well.

False scientific findings, Hermione, cause dented-headed-baby-ness.

Just something I thought you'd like to know.

Also, Quidditch blasphemy will cause lightning strikes. And just think of your hair size with electrocution, Hermione.

Of course he wouldn't like being called a Tad Bit. Nobody would. It would be like me calling you Herpes Hermione. It's not flattering.

Since you so trounced my other potential careers, I won't introduce my new idea. I won't mention that it includes tight clothes, strong thighs, and a riding crop.

I showed George your letter, the bit about Jordan. George laughed. And then George fell down the stairs, because Bill pushed George, because Bill had asked for silence as he was nailing something down, and then Bill hurt his thumb because George laughed. By the way, we're doing things the muggle way, because, obviously, it's the safer way.

Quidditch statistics is a wonderful way to teach arithmancy. And I'm sure there's a close connection between Quidditch and Herbology as well. Don't be so close minded, Hermione.

And what are you showing? If it's weird looking, of course nobody's going to comment, because it would be rude. Honestly, you are so daft sometimes I worry for you.

Reporters that are usually focusing on the progress of the Draco search are, strangely, focusing on the fact that Poppy is using Hedwig. Tell me, why the hell do they care that a muggle woman is using my owl?

So I won't kill her, only because they would report it should they find me pushing her off a cliff.

Did I mention that her hair is purple now? That's not even reasonable. That's not even explainable. I hope they come to take her away soon.

Harry

* * *

October 11 

It's going to be quick, because your arse of a friend is pestering me, saying that it would be easier for Hedwig to make one trip instead of two, so I must write my letters in coordination to his.

He came over with a hard hat on, by the way. I didn't know it was possible, but he looks stupider than usual.

Henrietta says that the pic of the ghost does not look genuine. Julia concurs. Nadine (she's the youngest, remember?) declares that he's a little bit cute, so I shall keep an eye on her when puberty hits.

Shut up about your fatness. You've an excuse. My daughters have been popped out a long time ago, and yet the cottage cheese remains. One word, however: Moisturize. I swear I have a street map of London in my stretch marks.

It's very normal to have pervy dreams. At least your fantasies are normal. When I was pregnant, I had an amorous fixation on my father's chauffeur (who had one leg, by the way).

I told Barry that you are bald, and that Harry was a lonely woman, and I think that Barry may be going blind, for he was chatting your friend up when I opened the door.

Thank you for the concern about my dream job, but you needn't fear on my behalf. The girls want a pig fetus in a jar. Or a pistol. You would tell me if I've raised bad children, wouldn't you?

Kisses,

Poppy

* * *

Hello love, 

I hope you're well. I'm fine, for the most part. It's so humid, however, I feel the ink may slide off the parchment. Please take care.

* * *

October 12 

Mr. Prewett,

I've suddenly recalled Draco telling me how much he'd enjoy the opportunity to ski. Perhaps you should focus your search on snowy, arctic regions.

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger

* * *

October 19 

Hello Harry,

Honestly, I didn't know boys could ever be so stupid. Showing means showing signs of pregnancy.

There would be no reason to call me Herpes Hermione. Stop spreading the natural lechery of your mind onto others, fiend. Oh, and if you are involved in some sort of dominatrix career, I will disown you.

I hear you are half way done. I would like to see it. Jordan says he visited (skiving off his own class, mind you!) and that it looks wonderful.

"I showed George your letter, the bit about Jordan. George laughed. And then George fell down the stairs, because Bill pushed George, because Bill had asked for silence as he was nailing something down, and then Bill hurt his thumb because George laughed."

That is the worst run on sentence I have ever seen, Harry. It burned my eyes. My first years never go on and on like that. They manage to use pronouns as well.

The baby has been kicking like mad lately! Still, despite the discomfort, I'm very excited!

Did I mention that, yesterday evening, after the Hufflepuff victory, the other three houses quite ostracized their table? It's the most horrendous behavior I have ever witnessed. There they were, eating quite happily (all right, they were boasting loudly, just a little bit) and then one Gryffindor launched himself at the Hufflepuff captain, Ricky Harlsbury, and encouraged by this atrocious decision, Slytherin captain, Edward Mintworth, followed suit. Then bedlam erupted, and Hagrid had to jump into the fray to end it. Lee was in there as well, but I don't know if he was helping Ricky up or holding him down.

Dumbledore was most displeased. As was Wood, who, of course, had refereed the game. He says he's never seen such bad sportsmanship, and, as this is Oliver we're talking about, that is saying something.

I have no idea why they would care you're sharing Hedwig with Poppy. But, then again, you're Harry Potter, so every little thing you do matters. Has anybody ransacked your trash yet?

Considering your magical abilities, pushing Poppy off a cliff is highly disappointing. That's the best you could do?

And stop judging people by their hair. It's very shallow of you.

Love

Hermione

P.S. I was in a bit of a bad mood at the beginnign of this letter. I had certain activities planned...but they were ruined because a certain git isn't being a responsible git and writing down the proper information so the plans could take place...so forgive?

* * *

October 19 

Hi Poppy!

Do not tease Harry and his hard hats. I like his little Handy Andy emulating. At least he has some sort of goal. He's getting to be a bit Sirius-like, and it's nice to know he's not a completely hopeless case.

Ah, you haven't noticed any strangely garbed people about, have you? Taking pictures? Asking questions about Harry? Because, if you have, or, if you ever, just say no comment, please? Oh, and, if Harry asks, I have nothing to do with it all, okay?

You only say it's normal to have pervy dreams because you have them on a daily basis, pregnant or not, you scarlet woman.

Harry isn't that bad looking. Even if he weren't going blind (that would explain him chatting up my thigh whenever I ran into him), Barry shows good taste by showing interest in Harry. Besides "Barry and Harry" sounds so cute.

Your children aren't psychotic, Poppy. They're just curious about the unconventional aspects of society. That's perfectly normal.

Still, if they start spinning their heads and speaking in tongues, call somebody, Poppy. Preferably some sort of cleric.

I'm having student problems again. Harry predicted such, but I don't want to tell him, because then he'll know he was right. I keep giving detentions. For the stupidest reasons. Fraser was ten minutes late yesterday, despite the fact that I saw him lingering outside the classroom door for quite a while. I'm afraid that Harry might have been slightly correct with his "Hot Professor" theory but...well, it's not possible to be attracted to a pregnant, unwed teacher!

Love,

Hermione

* * *

October 21 

Fred and/or George:

No worries. I left one of the shareholders in charge. Taught him everything I know.

Doesn't matter where I am. All that matters is that I am not anywhere near the Astronomy Tower. Definitely nowhere near that place.

Lee

* * *

October 23 

Headmaster Dumbledore:

It has come to our attention that one of your employees is expecting a child out of wedlock. Although we do not doubt her capabilities as an educator, we are concerned that such a sad example of society is teaching our daughter. We shall be withdrawing Olivia (who is a naïve and impressionable young lady, we assure you) out of school, and do not doubt that many of our friends are contemplating similar action. Perhaps it would be best if the problem was dismissed directly.

Concerned Parents:

Yolanda & Eugene Berkensmyth

* * *

October 23 

Esteemed Parents:

I thank you for your advice. Parental interest, after all, is the very breath of Hogwarts. Without the questions and concerns at every decision, this school might have become the most modernized and diversified institution in Europe, and Merlin knows what a nightmare that would have been.

We are sad to see Olivia go. She has been a most treasured student. I suspect, however, (and please, do not interpret this with any offense) that many of my teachers are relieved. I was at loss as to how to explain to you two that my staff—after trying every punishment—could not stop your daughter from teaching contraceptive spells in the girls lavatories for the fee of 50 knuts. It was high way robbery.

But, as she is now your wonderful responsibility and no longer ours, I shall no longer worry about inventing a new punishment.

Grateful Headmaster:

Albus Dumbledore

(oh, and Fawkes, who edited the letter)

* * *

October 25 

Harry, mate,

Do you know when Madame Pomfrey regrew your bones? Do you remember how, exactly, she managed that? And if there were, hypoethetically, a dozen animal-like wrapped presents that had been crushed by a customer who had eaten obesity candy, would bone-growing be the right thing to do to restore their box shape? Because I don't know if they have bones, but I don't think they could be completely hollow so...

It's all hypothetical.

Seamus

P.S. Still, you should come by, and see if you could fix the squashed boxes situation, please.

P.S.S. Don't tell George or Fred, yeah?

* * *

October 26 

Fred & George Weasley

While we always appreciate visits from the alumni, I am sorry to issue a temporary banishment. Professor Jordan's class room is utterly demolished, and Professor McGonnagall is not at all pleased to share her establishments with him during reconstruction. The next time you attempt assassination on your friend and business partner, kindly do so in a clear and empty field.

Hogwarts Headmaster:

Albus Dumbledore

* * *

October 29 

Seamus Finnigan:

The only reason you are still a shareholder is the fact that you put me first before Fred in your hypothetical letter to Harry. This is, I assume, because I am the dashing one. As I take this as an example of your fine observation skills, you will still own stock of our store. You just can't set foot in it ever again.

Dashingly yours,

George Weasley.

* * *

October 31 

Happy Halloween Herpes Hermione!

I say, that progeny condition is scarily affecting your mind. I was never considering anything to do with dominatrixes. I was merely contemplating the career as a jockey. Perv!

I doubt Jordan gave an accurate account on the current condition of my home, considering he bumped into the mail woman just a block away from my house, and only saw the construction in passing. The little slut (Lee, I mean. The mail woman is very non sluttish and always prompt.)

I'm sorry about the run on sentence I'll try to never do that again and I hope that everything I write is worthy of your infallible gaze.

You should be excited that the baby is kicking, Hermione. Kick back, and teach the little bugger that violence solves nothing.

Of course, I'm joking. I don't see how somebody of your athletic talents could kick a brick wall, so I highly doubt you'd be flexible enough to punish your unborn offspring. Still, I say this is a good sign. If Quidditch does not bode well for the little brat, football will be the next best occupation.

I wager Lee was holding him down. Jordan lost a bet with Perce concerning the game. I know, I know, you're probably outraged. I would have never thought that Jordan would bet that Hufflepuff would win.

Good old Oliver! He's the one who told me about the Hufflepuff talent. Not that I wagered or anything. Don't scold me on betting.

Damn. I can't tell if you're lying through your handwriting. I'm still very suspicious (they keep asking me if I have a special lady friend somewhere in London!) but I won't badger you. Funny that you mention my trash, though, it has been knocked over several times, but I don't know if these are raccoons or obsessive Creeveys.

I can have flowers consume her entire body until she dies of asphyxiation (poppies, for irony's sake) but I don't think you'd approve. Who would deliver the milk?

And, obviously, I do not judge everybody by their hair. I befriended you, didn't I? I only judge Poppy by her hair, and I highly doubt this will be a problem for very long, considering that all of hers will fall out with all the dyeing. It's blonde again, by the way.

Harry

P.S. Of course I forgive you for your insane moods. And, while your explanation was very vague and very suspicious, I'll just assume you meant plans with a student, who failed to give enough in an essay or something like that.

* * *

October 31 

Hello Hermione!

I dunno if it's okay to write to you. Is this some sort of holy beyond holy holiday? Harry assures me that it's okay to behave normally on Halloween, and that there's no strict observation, but I wouldn't put it past him to let me transgress some sort witchy rule, and have me executed.

Harry's encouraged me to put in many run-on sentences. I dunno why.

Funny you should mention Handy Andy. I've dreams of him too. GASP! Maybe I am a perv! Maybe that's why my girls are inherently twisted. I don't believe it would be too bad if Harry became serious. Why such an intelligent girl like you misspelled that, I'll never know. SERIOUS.

Henri's gotten in trouble at school. She tried to stand on another boy's shoulders. When I asked her way, she said she wanted to know what sex was like (apparently, somebody's told her boys and girls get on top of each other, and the rest is history). I need some sort religious figure to help them, whether they're possessed or not.

And to think, you're bringing another child into the world. Good luck!

Poppy

P.S. Stop acting so surprised young boys find you attractive, pregnant or no! Besides, you must think of Hogwarts' selection of older women. McGonagall is ancient, Harry tells me.

* * *

Mione, 

Give this puffin something to eat, please. He's been my only companion for days. By the way, are you well? If not, leave your place immediately. Stay with the weasels, if need be. Don't endanger your health for the sake of proving a point. Take care.

* * *

November 5 

Mr. Prewett,

Draco once said that he would be interested in visiting a tropical island one day. I hope this information would be of some use to you. I am very anxious to see the criminal apprehended.

Sincerely,

Hermione

* * *

November 12 

Hello ma'am,

We've only met once, but I believe that you're my good friend's crush. Do stop his silly attentions, because he's become so distracted he's convinced that knocking on walls will lead us to find studs. How male animals can survive within the walls is beyond me. Obviously, love has addled his brains.

Respectfully,

Fred Weasley

* * *

November 13 

Do disregard the prior letter from my idiot brother. I've explained to him what studs are, and that Harry could not possibly be in love with you, for he is obviously still heartbroken over my younger sister. Kindly continue in your normal muggly way, and forgive his stupid intrusion.

Respectfully,

George Weasley

* * *

November 14 

Harry Potter!

I was TRYING to have a decent, motherly, NORMAL parent meeting two days ago, and your god damned bird flies by! THANKFULLY, I managed to convince the other couples that this was a fluke, and to reschedule the little supper to the 13th. And THEN another bloody message is delivered, and it is filled with more nonsense than the first! If you do not tell those friends of yours to stop pestering me, I will kill them, you, and your bird!

Poppy Porpington

* * *

November 15th 

First of all, do not ever threaten my bird again. The twins, you may kill. But should I find one feather harmed on Hedwig, I shall hold you responsible.

Second of all, you must not be terribly angry. Otherwise, you would have called me, instead of writing. That, or you must have been so angry that you quite forgot to use logic. I'd prefer the second scenario, personally, because you tend to grow so silly in your fury that your eyes cross, thus showing all your inbred genealogy.

Third of all, I'm not in love with you.

Fourth of all, I am not in love with Ginny Weasley, for that matter.

So stop pestering me. I'm being very manly and building houses.

* * *

TEXT MESSAGE FROM Poppy 

U suck. Plz die.

* * *

REPLY FROM Harry 

Spell check

* * *

November 20 

Dear Poppy,

Are you still alive? You haven't written back in a very long time. Harry for that matter, either. You two aren't having fun and forgetting me, are you? It would be most unfair. Here I am, amidst chaotic students and chaotic sports and chaotic explosions (though, I suppose that's redundant, isn't it, considering explosions are rarely anything less than chaotic?) and you two are having all the fun.

It's unfair that somehow alcohol harms the baby. For, clearly, pregnant women are the ones with the greatest need for the spirits.

One student actually asked me when it was due. She was very polite about it, not at all very snide, because her elder sister was pregnant as well. Of course, her elder sister is TWENTY NINE, so I feel very low right now.

I tend to blame it on the hormones, all my emotions. After the pregnancy, I can't imagine what I'll blame my bad moods on. PMS again, I suppose.

Write back!

Hermione

* * *

November 23-24 

Fred, George, aka those two ponces I used to work with,

(Sorry mates, I started writing last night and I fell asleep. Bloody hell, I can't believe they expect graded papers so soon! When I was in school, I never wanted to know my grades.)

They told me to inform you that your banishment is over. This was two weeks ago. I meant to write sooner, but you wouldn't have time to come by any way.

Hermione's quite a sight. She put on two different coloured socks the other day, but her robes covered it most of the time.

Earlier today, I found a chameleon near the prefects lavatories, so imjfndpwoke

It's morning now, and I don't remember what happened after I found the chameleon. In fact, I'm not sure if that really happened or if I daydreamed it during my classes.

Filch is mad, or, at least, more than usual. Utterly convinced that I magicked his hair pink. Which is completely untrue, for I was hoping for red, and the grease of his own hair reacted strangely.

The Dumble says I mustn't find any sort of attraction in my students. I vow, that's the fifth time I've heard that, but nobody ever follows up with a very good reason WHY?

Lee

* * *

November 24 

Miss Porpington,

I'm sorry to bother you, but, for some odd reason, my elder brother has encouraged me to send you something harmful. I refused, and he accepted my decision with unusual alacrity. As this is suspicious behavior, I must advise you to have Harry test anything suspicious that has been owled to you.

Ginny Weasley

* * *

November 29 

Fred or George, or both,

For god's fucking sake, I am NOT in love with Poppy. I am NOT in love with Ginny. I do not want ANYBODY to OFF that STUPID (I don't really mean that, I'm just upset with my impromptu obesity. She's a terribly intelligent woman, so intelligent, in fact, that I envy her, and convey my envy through my snarky attitude.) MUGGLE! DO NOT ENCOURAGE YOUR SIBLINGS TO OFF ANY MUGGLES! (this, take note, is always a splendid rule to live by)

As soon as I return to my normal size, and once my fingers no longer resemble sausages, I'm going to kill the both of you.

Harry

(and Poppy, who is dictating for him. I took liberties as to where the put the emphases. He fell through the floor, by the way, when he swelled up like a balloon, so I'm sending you the bill for the damages)

* * *

November 30 

Hello Hermione,

Sorry, it's been a while, hasn't it?

Is it just me, or is November the month for madness?

The house is nowhere near finished. I suppose I've lost interest. I don't know how I want it designed, exactly, so I've stopped construction until I know for sure. That way, I won't regret the decisions later, for it's so hard to change a room once it's already built.

So, I've been out of the country, at least once or twice a day, checking out leads. It's mostly dull work, for most of the leads are nonsense. Not every single, pale blonde is the fugitive Malfoy. Do you know how many times I've been to Iceland?

Well, I'm tired, so I'm off to sleep now. You're doing well? No babies falling out as you walk or anything? Fred assures me he saw it happen once, but, to be fair, he had been observing a horse.

Sleepy friend,

Harry

* * *

November 30 

Mione

That blasted bird has knocked on my window at bloody 3:00 in the morning, I suppose out of habit. I'll write something quick to pleased the stupid animal. Why the hell Harry is writing at 3 in the morning is beyond me.

Everybody is fine. The girls have gone on for three weeks without much trouble, so we are celebrating the new record. I would send you some of the cake they managed to make, but I like you, and I'd rather not have you die so soon.

How are you? Very well, I hope. You must be very emotional; only one more month!

Poppy

* * *

December 1 

BOYS!

I HAVE HEARD THAT YOU HAVE COMPARED ME TO A BLOATED WHALE! A BLOATED WHALE! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT I AM ENDURING? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW INSENSITIVE IT IS TO COMPARE A PREGNANT WOMAN TO AN OBESE AQUATIC ANIMAL?!

YOU TWO ARE THE WORST SORT OF BASTARDS! I WILL NEVER CONSIDER YOU FOR BABYSITTERS!

HERMIONE GRANGER (OR, IN CASE THE NAME IS UNFAMILIAR, THE WOMAN TO WHOM YOU REFERRED TO AS THE BLOATED WHALE!)

* * *

Dec 2 

We are sorry to inform you that Harry Potter has killed Fred and George Weasley, in his overreaction to a small prank (which wouldn't have, in any way, killed a muggle. It might have caused mild discomfort for this muggle, but it was only to show that we think that she's decent enough to be a friend).

Kindly do not send howlers to deceased. It is disrespectful, and a sure fire way to guarantee a haunting.

The Solicitors of the late Fred and George Weasley.

This has been written by neither Fred nor George, as they are both dead, and clearly, it has been typed, very professional-like, and bears no resemblance to either of our hand writing styles.

* * *

December 2 

YOU TWO APOLOGISE IMMEDIATELY OR I AM TELLING YOUR MOTHER! AND YOUR FATHER! AND BILL! AND CHARLIE! AND HAGRID, WHO'S LARGE, BY THE WAY! VERY, VERY, VERY LARGE!

Love,

Hermione

* * *

December 3 

You must have misheard ! We would have never called you a bloated whale ! If you're any sort of aquatic creature, you're clearly a mermaid. Mermaid queen, in fact !

We are terribly sorry for mix up ! Here, we baked these ourselves. The very best biscuits. Don't stay upset with us.

But, after the fact, you are still so angry with us that we are not candidates for baby sitting, well, we'll understand.

Dreadfully sorry,

Fred & George

* * *

December 3 

You stupid git! You surely have broken the number one rule of all males everywhere: you do not discuss male discussions with sensitive females!

Especially the fact that we might have light, tenuously, barely compared her to the world's largest creature!

Fred is very upset! Mum's boxed his ears! How mum found out, I'll never know! Luckily, she sent us a tin as well, so we gave it to Hermione as a peace offering.

You stupid, stupid, stupid dolt! You're very lucky they haven't found a replacement yet, for, if you were still employment at the store, I'd sack you!

George

P.S. Ask Oliver about the Tornadoes. Is it true their seeker is injured?

* * *

December 4 

Hello dear!

Oh, it's been ever so long since I've sent a letter to Hogwarts! Well, I know the holidays are coming up, and, I know that Harry means to have you over. But his house is lacking...shall we say, everything?

I don't mean it's completely primitive, but I highly doubt it will be the best sort of environment for a pregnant young woman. I believe it's become some sort of bachelor pad. I know all of my sons enjoy going there. Percy as well!

Ginny, of course, refuses to, and it would be so nice for the two of you to spend some time together.

Besides, with it being so near to your due date, it would be better to have somebody who knows what they're doing, instead of...well, boys.

Please consider! The Burrow is strange when empty!

Love,

Mrs. Weasley

* * *

December 4 

Hello Mrs. Weasley!

It's so kind of you to invite me, especially since I've been such an errant child and haven't written you at all. Of course, I'd love to spend the holidays at the Burrow! Ginny and I have much catching up to do! I hardly see her when she visits; Oliver monopolizes her time most unfairly.

Also, Crookshanks will love to chase gnomes again! Fred sent some of your biscuits, by the way, so I've fallen into the addiction again. I'll need your wonderful cooking throughout the season to survive!

I've arranged certain matters with Dumbledore. Madame Pomfrey assures me it's better to be somewhere else besides work so late in the pregnancy. Everybody is so wonderful here! Even the students are sorry to see me go! Although, I do not know if this is because I will be gone, or if this is because Remus Lupin shall be overtaking my classes. He gets in such a terrible mood when it is time to double up!

I shall see you in a few days, for it will take some time to organize matters and pack my belongings. Sadly, I have lost my invisibility book, and I do not want to leave it for the house elves to stumble over!

Gratefully yours,

Hermione

* * *

December 5 

Dear everybody,

I am relocating to the Burrow, so send all your letters there.

Sincerely,

Hermione

* * *

December 5 

To my favourite headmaster:

Thank you, thank you, thank you for the opportunity here. Hopefully, after the suitable amount of time, I will return.

I will write you, for I can't imagine any other activity Mrs. Weasley will allow me in my condition.

Happy holidays!

Hermione Granger, your favourite pregnant lady

* * *

Be safe, love. Do not travel if it proves too dangerous. 

Yours always

* * *

xoxox 

Harry ensured that his arrival time occurred while everybody had been sent to bed. Under normal circumstances, his ego would have enjoyed the swooning immensely, but he was here on important business, sent by Molly Weasley herself. It was time to escort Hermione home.

He was quite grateful for the abandoned halls as he milled about, waiting for Hermione to finish her business. That was the problem with women. They declared they ready to leave, and then proceeded to make their departure approximately twenty years after they say so. Harry, very bored with all the letter leaving and good bye saying, took to reacquainting himself with the grounds, glad to wander about without having to worry about attacks.

Without fully knowing how, he found himself in an empty corridor, where many a mischievous planning had taken place. Harry grinned when he spied the abandoned girls lavatories, and nearly pushed it open when he remembered the new preventative measures. He would have been disappointed that his reminiscing had been thwarted had not he been so damn proud of the fact.

Just then, somebody exited the girls' loo. The door did not swing open, but nevertheless, Harry jumped back in fear of physical injury. It was a silly fear, actually, for Moaning Myrtle would not have harmed a hair on his head.

Or, at least, he thought so.

"What are you doing here?" The specter demanded in an outrageously rude tone.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Visiting."

"But that's the girls lavatories, stupid," Myrtle informed him condescendingly. "You can't go in there!"

"Hasn't stopped me before," he replied arrogantly, and enjoyed the ghost's momentary confusion.

"Liar!" she hissed. Harry rolled his eyes. If this girl had been living, he speculated she would have died from over reaction.

"Please, Myrtle. You've seen me in there, loads of times."

Floating a few feet off the ground, Myrtle crossed her arms. He supposed she was trying to sulk, but, in his estimation, that was impossible at such an altitude. Sulking required lowering one's posture to the floor, and floating definitely hindered that ambition.

"I have not!" she declared stoutly. "The only boys who have been in there have been–"

She stopped, and swooped closer to him, so swiftly he jumped back. Her translucent face tilted left and right, and Harry abruptly wished she were living, so that he could push her back.

"Harry?"

He let out an exasperated sigh. It had only been a few months, really, since he left Hogwarts. True, during the war, he hadn't had much time for conversation with her, but she must have seen him. She had no right to be so surprised with his altered appearance.

"Yes, Myrtle," he began impatiently. "Obviously, it's–"

"You've changed," she said softly, floating backwards. Harry couldn't quite place the reason, but, for some reason, she looked as if she...feared him.

"I suppose," he agreed uncertainly.

"You've gotten so much older," she continued, her face twisting with confusion, her voice gaining a familiar tremble. He waited tensely for the moaning to begin, but none came. Instead, Moaning Myrtle merely shook her head angrily. "You've gotten so much older!"

"I can't help it," he said defensively. "It's only been a year–"

"No, no, no," she argued, voice thick with despair. "I can tell. I can tell when somebody ages too fast and you've...you've...oh, why, Harry? Why couldn't you stay young?"

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but found no words pouring out. At once, he was struck with an odd sense of deja vu. He had seen her before, like this, exactly like this. In a dim hall way, arguing with her about an unchangeable subject, seeing her mourn the fact. It felt as if time had reversed, and he was young again, and, as irritating as the situation was, disagreeing with Moaning Myrtle was comforting beyond belief.

The little girl ghost was crying softly now, her white, glowing hands covering her face.

"I don't know," he said apologetically. "I wish I had."

They stood in silence, observing each other, words unable to describe the situation. Finally, after an eternity, she spoke in a calmer tone, taking a childish quality Harry had grown accustomed to:

"I wish I may grow old as well."

"You don't," Harry contradicted instantly, meeting her eyes. "It's not a good thing, growing old."

"Well, it's not a good thing, staying the same, either," Myrtle snapped, whipping up, closer to the ceiling. "I stay the same. Everything I know stays the same!"

"And I envy you for that!" he cried, more passionately than he had never felt in months. "If you knew how horrible things become after 'changes' happen–"

"But I don't know!" Myrtle roared. "I'll never know! Go on, and mock me! Dead is dead, Harry. But living can be many things."

He shook his head in disgust, and turned away. As he stormed back to Hermione's chambers to wait, Harry brewed over that silly little ghost's words. What did she know of living? She had spent her entire, breathing life complaining about one thing or another. So what? Now that she had built an impressive knowledge of being deceased, she was qualified to judge other, living beings? Rubbish.

He swallowed his distaste, and pushed away his frustration, in time to escort Hermione off the grounds and onto the train. It was a silent ride home, and, after dropping her off at the Burrow, he sped back to Number Twelve. It would have been terribly awkward any way, to stay for a visit with Ginny just around the corner. And, also, he felt that he needed to clean up a bit before Hermione visited later on.

Miraculously, in the course of events, the "cleaning up" was forgotten, and the house was in perfect disarray when his best friend stopped by a few days later.

Outside, England was bathed in a world of white. The air was biting cold, and light that shone through the clouds were depressingly grey. Hermione had, miraculously, been let outside to visit Harry, but only after she had been wrapped with so much material she resembled some sort puffy star fish, or so Harry had claimed.

Harry had excitedly met her at the door, and quickly shown her all the progress. She emitted the "ooh's" and "ah's" whenever he paused and looked for her reaction. He had explained that, in order to be truly rid of all the snide and vicious portraits, it was necessary to relocate the walls in their entirety.

Hermione refrained from pointing out that, maybe, he and his fellow construction workers—Poppy had been right, he did look ridiculous with his construction helmet on, especially with the miner's light on it—could have cut out the wall around the pictures. Then again, Hermione thought, Harry and the crew would not hesitate to blow up a mansion in an effort to augment the size of a door.

"Where are they now?" Hermione had asked as they climbed the stairs, slowly. Harry was extraordinarily patient with Hermione's sluggish pace, and always stopped and chatted as if it were perfectly normal to carry on conversation in the middle of the stair case.

"Hmm? Oh, the walls? I sent them to Colin. He's opening a museum of the weird and wicked."

"Hmm. How appropriate."

Hermione was immensely pleased to see him. He had gained more mass since their last encounter, but not so much that he appeared to have surrender to gluttony; he was still lean, still wiry, but at least with some noticeable muscle. In fact, his facial features were still so sharp and gaunt that Hermione belatedly realised that her Harry would permanently look like that.

Harry waited until Hermione sank down into the dusty cushions before he asked: "Did you ever solve the animosity of a Tad Bit?"

"Oh, yes, somewhat. I found him drunk, early one morning, after a Hogsmeade excursion. He had had more fire whiskey than I've ever had my entire life."

"Silly bint, I'm sure Dobby has had more fire whiskey than you've ever had your entire life. So, what happened? Did you bribe him?"

"Well, considering that he was lying behind Hagrid's home and singing about the roast beef of England, I pitied him. After all, he might have been pissed, but at least he was pissed and patriotic."

"Always a good combination."

"I thought so. I sent him to Madame Pomfrey with a note of mine stuck to his shirt. I explained that he should not be punished, because…well I forgot what I wrote, really, I suspect any excuse would have worked. They were all very indulgent with me."

"Pregnant women," Harry muttered. "You get away with everything."

"Why," he then demanded, "couldn't you move in with me, again?"

"I'm not moving in," Hermione sighed. "I'm only visiting. Where is Buckbeak?"

"I sent him back to Hagrid. I've no idea how to take care of the animal." Harry idly kicked at a wooden frame, where a wall once was. "Besides, Hedwig was becoming unusually territorial."

"Well, that's hardly believable, considering what a mess you've made of said territory."

Harry sat on one sawdust covered sofa. "So like women. You don't recognise true genius when you see it. This will become a beautiful home, just you wait."

"And to think, I missed hearing your sarcasm as I read it on parchment."

"Very busy, then, writing letters?"

"God yes," she laughed. "You really should introduce the idea of the world wide web to the wizarding world, being the trend setter you are."

It was true. Only a week after his "return" to society, and young boys were already sporting round glasses with no lenses.

"What? And be bombarded by questions of spiders? Pass, thank you." He paused, and donned a bland expression. "Ginny write you?"

"No."

"Really?" His voice was noticeably happier. "Then I suppose she hasn't been writing Oliver as well."

"On the contrary. She came by to see Oliver so many times there was really no need to owl each other. Why do you suppose that?"

Harry's face was so crestfallen Hermione was reminded of a punished school boy. "He's been a total nutter, Hermione. He mentioned that things might be getting serious in his last letter…I believe… I believe he was asking if I was uncomfortable, should things become serious."

"And? I thought you didn't care about her."

"For god's sake, Hermione, just because I don't date her doesn't mean I don't care about her. I mean, it's Oliver Wood, Hermione. He's what…twenty years older than us?"

"Um, it's more like four, but I'll just assume you're rounding up."

"He's ancient, Hermione. He's doddering. It's practically necrophilia."

"Harry," Hermione could not help but giggle. He obviously did not see the humour in his ranting, for he only glared. "Harry, are you jealous?"

"Well…"

"It's natural, you know. She's the only girl you've ever been with. Of course you'll feel possessive after you break up."

He nodded, and idly kicked an empty paint bucket. "Yeah, that makes sense. I mean, she isn't the only girl I've ever been with, but she has been the only girl I've dated." He seemed to speaking more to himself than her, but, still, she could not help but pick out a few confusing phrases.

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"Huh?"

"That bit—that part, about…you know, having been with girls. Isn't that the same—" Hermione broke off with a scandalized gasp. "Harry!"

"What?" He sounded amusingly panicked.

"You've—" Hermione's eyes darted left and right to scan the empty room. "slept with other girls while you were with Ginny?"

"God no!" he instantly denied, flushing to a bright pink. "I only meant, I mean…" He shrugged, terribly embarrassed. This was not the talk between friends of the opposite sex. This sort of talk was appropriate with other male, non judgmental friends—who, in Harry's case, were all Weasleys, so that was not an option either.

"After wards. While I was traveling."

"Harry!"

He did wish that she would stop saying it like that, somewhere in between a reprimand and a squawk. "What?" Harry muttered defensively. "Can I help it if some stupid girl thought my tattoo was 'sexy'?"

"Yeah, you sort of can. You can say 'no'?"

"You did not see this girl Hermione," he began to laugh, but then stopped himself. Harry realised he desperately needed some non-Hermione, non Weasley friends. "Please forget this conversation ever took place?"

Hermione, who had been growing warmer as the subject grew tawdrier, nodded with a roll of her eyes.

She had become so round Harry was tempted to ask if she was carrying twins, and now shuffled to the nearest window and looked outside.

"It's lovely."

"If that horrid boy next door hadn't peed his name in the snow, then yes, it would be charming sight."

"If you would just shovel the walk way, Harry, he wouldn't have had the opportunity."

"How was I to know that a boy named Alexandrio-Damascus would find it necessary to urinate his name publicly? No twelve year old should have such a formidable bladder!"

Hermione nodded. "And it was impressive how he added 'was here' after his name. I mean, he could spell that burden of a name, but he misspelled 'was.' That was very silly. Where does he go to school?"

"I believe the 'z' was on purpose, Hermione."

Hermione shrugged, and managed, barely, to sit herself beside him. Under normal circumstances, she would have dusted the furniture off and then sat on a handkerchief, but her feet were too sore to allow her usual prim attitude.

They sat in relative silence then, and watched as snow fell silently outside. It was still a mostly grey, monochromatic home, but the bright wooden beams and experimental splotches of wall paint loudly announced Harry's presence. He was determined to change it, that much Hermione could tell. But she also wondered if he was determined to change it beyond recognition; beyond anything that recalled Sirius' death.

"You're troubled," she observed, in a voice so soft and so sad it seemed to blend easily with the deadened silence of the house.

"Yes," he agreed, louder, for Harry Potter had never feared foreboding silences. His words were firm, decisive sounds in the otherwise trembling stillness. "We can't find him. We can't find him."

He shook his head, and, for no other reason than to simply move, he took off his glasses and studied them.

"Has he contacted you?" Harry asked her sternly, without facing her. His tone had no accusation, but brooked no tolerance for personal offense. He had no time for dramatics.

Hermione thought of the rose, safely tucked away in a visible book. She remembered the terse notes with no addresses. She recalled that last letter, expressing concern for her traveling plans. She remembered how she had spent many nights staring at both, wondering where he was, wondering if he was safe.

"No," she replied, emitting just the right mixture of desolation and sadness that Harry did not even pause to question her lie.

She hated the fact that she would lie for him. She hated the fact that, in order to help one love, she was hurting her chances with the other.

"I need to find him, Hermione. I need him."

"I know, Harry," Hermione said tenderly, reaching out, by instinct, to smooth his hair. It was a silly attempt, for his hair was already perfectly arranged, and she was usually the one to ruffle it…but it felt wrong, now, to act so silly. She rubbed the hair, just above his temple, once more, not only for his sake but for hers as well. She did hate to hurt him so.

He was so silent. Hermione wished that he would sigh, or speak, or show some kind of emotion. Instead, Harry simply sat, accepting her touch but not acknowledging it, staring at the bones of a former wall.

"It should have been different," he finally stated calmly. Before she could react, he had reached up and captured her fingers with his. Suddenly, Hermione found herself under the intense stare of his green eyes. "It should have been you and Ron."

"I…" she swallowed, hating how she cried so easily now. "I don't know if I could agree."

"I don't want you to agree," he returned without emotion. "I just wanted you to know. It should have been you and Ron. Ron, the one who always tried to please you. Ron, the smart alec. You, the wise one. You, the righteous one. They were perfect for each other. But you never had the chance. They never had the chance."

Hermione frowned in great confusion and pulled her hand away. Harry had risen now, and checked outside the lacy drapes. When he spoke once more, it was burdened with jaded hope.

"They were killed, just when they were getting started Hermione. So, then, you two should have a chance. But no. You never had the opportunity to marry. You never had the opportunity to have a child. You never had the opportunity to name me god father."

And then, all at once, so swiftly Hermione lost her breath, she understood. Oh god, how she understood.

"You couldn't have repaired the past through us, Harry," she told him thickly.

Now, he did turn. "The hell I couldn't," he bit off angrily.

Hermione could find nothing else to say, and only stared down at her hands. For a while there…it had been like history repeating itself, hadn't it? The love-hate relationship…the well meaning best friend…it had been so easy to overlook, the likeness between the trio's past and the past Harry wanted to amend…

"It was stupid any way, wasn't it?" Harry said now, crossing his arms. "To think that, maybe, Voldemort wouldn't ruin everything. To think that, maybe, this time, it will be seen through."

"What would have been seen through?"

"What my parents had. What you and Ron had. You were my Lily, you know."

How simply he said those words. They echoed in her mind, making her freeze like a statue of surprise. It was amazing, how touched she was. Hermione understood the immortalizing the memory of Lily Potter had undergone in Harry's mind. She understood how his mother was flawless, inspiring figure in his life. To say that she was _his _Lily, to say that she was on the same pedestal... Hermione did not know when she had ever felt so humbled.

Now he did sigh, a sound so tragic and regretful that Hermione was sure she had never heard anything so lonely. "I don't really know what they were like. But, after watching you two…well, I kind of liked the thought of mum being like you—all right and proper and wise. And dad could have been like Ron—not properly anything, really. Just a bloke, an athlete, but trying to please you just the same."

He smiled, for he saw how the tears pooled in her eyes, and his lips curved upwards only for her sake. "Oh come on, Hermione, don't be maudlin. Of course it was a stupid idea." He cleared his throat, and looked around. "Well, even if it had gone through, you two might have had a girl, and I can think of no name more ridiculous for a girl than 'Harry.'"

She gave a muffled giggle as she blinked away the tears. She wondered about him, and how he could speak of such matters without crying a droplet. Years of training, she supposed.

"You're my best friend," he laughed as he helped her up. "And yet, I manage to depress you on every occasion. Come on, I'll drop you off at Poppy's. She and her monsters will be so glad to see you."

"Stop calling them monsters, Harry," Hermione scolded as she regained her balance. "It's not very flattering."

"Well, I did call them her litter once, and she proved fiercely against the term."

"Harry! Oh, honestly—never mind. You two are completely set against each other, and there's no changing the fact. But, don't send me to Poppy's. I'd rather go to Mungo's, actually."

"Mungo's? Whatever for?"

"That's my business. You may accompany me, if you wish."

He bowed gallantly. "What an utter bastard I'd be if I didn't escort you. Hold on, a bit, I have to wrap you up in your starfish suit, or Mrs. Weasley'll have my head."

Once they finished the tremendous trek down the stairs, Harry gently grasped Hermione's arm before she moved together their things. "You would tell me, wouldn't you? If Draco had communicated with you, in any way?"

Hermione bravely met his eyes, hating every inch of herself as she did so. "Of course."

He was satisfied, and increased Hermione's guilt tenfold when he merely looked vaguely guilty himself. "Sorry," he grumbled with a sheepish smile. "I'm just very anxious."

"I know, Harry…but, a trip to Mungo's will distract you." Harry would have preferred something to entertain him, but went for Hermione's sake.

"Lost weight, have you?" he cheekily asked the mannequin before they were allowed entry. He wasn't sure, but he thought the rigid figure gave him a wink.

But his cheery mood dampened considerably when, in the lift, Hermione informed him that her task might last for quite a few hours.

"Hermione," he said for the fifth time, tone very close to a whine. The girl had given a stern request to the nice lady at the desk, and then they had been waiting for a very long while. He assumed that this was a visit about the little heathen growing in her womb, and wasn't entirely comfortable with the forthcoming enlightenment of the miracle of life. "Can't we go eat, please?"

"No."

"But why do you need me? Surely it's not time to squeeze my hand already?"

"If," she began at such an impatient tone that Harry jumped, "you will care to look around, Harry James Potter, you will see we are in the Insane Criminal Ward."

Harry, properly scared by her demeanor, obediently gazed around them, and feebly confirmed the fact. His mind scrambled to find a reason why such a visit was necessary. "But Gilderoy's well and gone by now, Hermione—"

"We're not here for him," she interrupted brusquely, and silenced the rest of Harry's complaints with just one look.

"Then who–"

A nurse came up and rudely interrupted him and his ignorant question, stating that the doctor had granted Hermione permission. The young, pregnant witch was in no mood to deal with Harry's annoyance, and elbowed him as they followed the witch, for the young, non-pregnant wizard was making faces at the nurse's back. After some rather depressing, poorly lit hall ways, they stopped at a stone door, that held no window. Harry was sure they had not descended in any way, but could not shake the feeling of behind underground, as if touring the catacombs or something equally macabre.

"I don't know if he can enter as well," the nurse said apologetically, nodding at Harry. She seemed so sincere in her regret that Harry instantly regretted his earlier immaturity.

"I fail to see what difference it makes," Hermione retorted in a no-nonsense tone. "He's mad, after all. When one is that insane, there's no worsening the state."

Harry opened his mouth to protest Hermione's hard tone–the nurse was quite pretty, he suddenly noticed, and was only doing her job–when she accepted Miss Granger's reasoning, and unlocked the door.

Their ears were immediately assaulted with the most heart rendering cacophony. Harry had never witnessed a grown man cry, so he was startled beyond speech to actually hear one sob, bawl, and roar with his sadness. There was no pause; only a shuddering breath would pause the ear splitting torment. It was as if the stranger in the dark was fighting off the flames of hell, so frightened and desperate were his cries.

"You don't have to come, Harry." He abruptly turned to Hermione, but found that she was not watching him. She had felt his revulsion, without the need of sight. Her eyes remained focused on the impenetrable darkness, and her voice had gone eerily soft. What difference did it make? He wanted to know. If she spoke softly? The man inside was obviously mad, and no matter how hushed the voice, he would remain trapped in his torture.

"No, no," he insisted, hating the thought of entering, but hating even more the thought of herself entering alone. "I'll come. Just–" He turned quickly to the nurse, just before Hermione passed the door way, "leave it open, a little bit, yeah?"

The nurse nodded, and Harry placed a firm grip on Hermione's arm as they slowly entered, in fear of the need to pull her out.

Then, without warning, the cries stopped. The volume dropped, and, in place, a soft, musical murmuring was heard. But it was a sad melody; the notes were haphazard, broken pieces of glass, tinkling in the blackness like orphaned chimes. It was a song of the forgotten, the words of the lost souls. Harry could hear the mourning in the muttering music, he could feel the unwashed tears in chopped lyrics. And he preferred the screaming.

The crack in the door way allowed just enough light to let them see the living tragedy. It was pale, skeletal man, tethered to a bed. His stringy, black hair was matted to his forehead, wet with tears and sweat. His eyes were glassy, and his long, lean body was tense with waiting. Poor old man, Harry lamented. Whatever he's waiting for, it will never come.

"Montague," Hermione muttered softly, shaking her head. "I had no idea–"

"My sister!" he suddenly sobbed. "Save her! I can't let her get hurt! I can't let her cry!"

"Montague," Harry, vainly, attempted to comfort the stranger. "She's fine."

"She's crying! Oh fuck, she's crying, she's crying, she's crying–it's my job–they'll get her, they'll get her, get, get, get..."

"I knew he was mad," Hermione said, addressing Harry without turning away. "But I never imagined–"

"She's crying, you fucks, she's crying! Can't you see? Can't you see? Mum, go to her, go now, go _NOW!_"

"Let's go," Harry said abruptly, unable to withstand the sight of hopelessness, and the smell of fear. "Let's just go."

"It'll be my fault," Montague dropped his volume again, settling for tender, rueful whispers. "It'll be my fault. I'm closest. They'll depend on me to do it. It'll be my fault."

Montague turned, and faced them, eyes too large to see anything but the pain. Harry did not want to hear whatever the invalid had to say, but Hermione remained rooted.

"I'll prove myself," Montague promised with the a full, radiant smile. Hermione nodded encouragingly, and almost stumbled as Harry dragged her out.

"Stay please?" he called after them.

Harry's steps faltered, and Hermione slowed with hesitation as well.

Montague's voice grew softer, and more pleading. "Tell me of my sister, please? Tell me if she's happy. I want her to be happy."

Harry's featured hardened, and he took another step forward, intercepting the shaft of light that swathed through the blackness.

"No!" Montague cried, so suddenly that both Harry and Hermione jumped. Like a chastised child, he lowered his voice once more, to an apologetic, low moan, "It's so dark–"

No more, Harry decided as Hermione gave the indication of returning to offer wasted comfort. No more.

The nurse locked the door as soon as they had rushed out.

It was difficult to think. Hell, for Harry, it was difficult to do much of anything as the three walked silently back into the bright, living world. He felt as if he had just caught a rare glimpse of hell, and, despite the metallic taste of revulsion in his mouth, he felt a morbid urge to learn more. It vaguely reminded him of those curses, those forbidden, "unforgivable" curses. You knew it was wrong to watch somebody suffer through them, you knew it was wrong to not help...but you just couldn't turn away.

They did not speak. They left the soft, sterile cocoon and stepped into the dissonant, wintry world. All the while, the pair of best friends did not bother to look at one another, nor narrow their eyes against the combatant wind, nor did they hide their hands in their safe, warm pockets when the cold grew biting. Though Hermione turned left when Harry would have preferred to turn right, he followed her. What kind of bastard would he be, stunned or not, to let his knocked up best friend wander around in freezing weather? The least he could do was freeze with her.

They stopped in a pub. It was quite by accident. After a numbing series of random turns and last minute decisions, Hermione had led them to an alley way, which held two door ways. Outside the one on the left, there stood a semi circle of cheerful carolers, musically beckoning passerbys to enter their quaint, humble church. On the right, in a direct insult to the divine establishment, sat a happily alcoholic establishment, complete with a pot bellied man sitting on the high step of the downward stair well. Mr. Fat Drunkard was also singing, with the same tune of "Joy to the World," but with his own, bawdy twist.

"I didn't know you could rhyme "good time" with "bosom," Harry commented with some surprise after Hermione had made a very wise decision of entering The Happy Hare.

"Oh, but it wasn't so nearly as impressive as the line, 'Joy to the world, I want to come,'" Hermione pointed out sagely as they settled into a booth. When a rosy faced waitress approached, Harry ordered a Guiness, and that large bowl of dinner mints by the entrance "for the lady."

"Was that a hint?" Hermione teased softly, folding a napkin mindlessly.

"It was consideration. They seemed to be the only edible thing in the establishment." He began to watch with interest as the large, red paper napkin began to take shape in Hermione's nimble hands.

"I never said I was hungry."

"You don't need to say it."

She crumpled up her project and tossed it at him. Harry dodged the projectile last minute, and the paper ball ended up lightly injuring the young woman who sat in the booth behind him. Because Harry could not stop his chuckling, and the woman would not stop grumbling, Hermione suggested they move to the bar.

"Coward," Harry muttered as he helped her onto the absurdly high stool. "A few more minutes and she would have left."

"Doesn't matter. Her negativity was ruining my appetite. And then I wouldn't finish that bowl of mints...which is where by the way?"

"It's coming," he replied loftily. As if hearing his rather haughty bidding, his beverage and her ridiculous snack appeared at his side. With a tart smile, he handed her his tall glass and kept the bowl for himself, and then made a great show of smacking his head and switching the two.

When the small, wizened man behind the bar moved to take another customer's order, Hermione spoke as she finished her napkin-paper-crane.

"Prewett absolutely detests him," Hermione offered off handedly. Harry arched an eyebrow, seemingly indifferent to the information.

"That madman hates the other madman?" Harry shook his head. "He should stick by him. Birds of a feather and all that."

The words, so amusingly familiar, made Hermione grin. "One of the first Death Eaters he wished to convict was Montague."

"Why?" Harry asked curiously.

Hermione smiled wanly. "Montague had killed Prewett's wife. It was very sad. They had just married."

Harry's mouth made a surprised "oh" shape, and he remained silent, as if in respect to the unknown victim.

Hermione cleared her throat to continue. "Then, when Prewett came into power, they find Montague, but they find him insane. A madman cannot stand trial. Prewett hates him for it, as if Montague had gone barking on purpose."

Harry smiled wryly, as if this petty sort of blood thirst was amusing to him.

"They say he went mad in his sleep," she murmured, addressing the bird.

Harry took a hearty sip before replying. Idly, he placed a few mints on the origami animal's back. "Do they really?"

"Yes. Don't you remember? We had wondered, for some time, why Montague had been pulled off the active duty list of Death Eaters. Now we know. He went to bed perfectly fine, and awoke screaming."

Because the bird could not carry the parcels, Harry popped the mints in his mouth, and then took another drink. He grimaced at the mingling tastes. "At least his care for his sister survived the fall."

Hermione smiled humourlessly. "There is no sister. He's an only child."

Harry, who had been taking a rather large gulp to wash away the tainted gulp of earlier, practically chugged as she spoke.

"Thirsty, Harry?"

He did not answer, and only rudely took her napkin to wipe his mouth. "I was hoping he had a freakin' army of sisters."

This was, Hermione estimated, a rather strange hope. "Why?"

"Because I've heard those words before," he muttered. "I've heard those exact, same words."

He did not elaborate. Hermione waited, and waited, and watched the bartender come to and fro, but no answer came.

"Then where the hell have you heard them?" she demanded impatiently.

Harry sighed, and leaned his head on a propped up elbow. With a dissatisfied frown, he watched her carefully. "Ronald Weasley," he finally told her. "He's said those words to me."

"I'm sorry," she said in one breath, narrowing her eyes. "But I don't understand."

Harry began to experiment with his own paper napkin, and pathetically produced a folded triangle. "He had this...mandatory conversation with me, once. It was rather annoying, really. But he felt that it was necessary, for the twins had gone and nobody had said anything..."

"And he said those exact same words? The ones that Montague had just screamed?"

"Yes."

"So why...I mean, what are you saying?"

He sent her a look of mounting dislike, and said brutally, "Don't play dumb, Hermione. You know exactly what I'm saying."

"Yes, but it's impossible Harry," she snapped, pushing the bowl away. "You know it is. Ron was never so cruel, to do something so horrible–"

"When did it happen?" Harry cut in harshly. "Hmm? When did we hear of Montague's departure from the war? Only two days after we heard of your parents' death!"

Hermione flinched at his blunt mention of it, and, in his heat, Harry did not care. Despite the hurt his lack of apology caused, Hermione rallied. "It could have been a coincidence," she shot back defensively.

"What a lovely sentiment, Hermione," he drawled cynically. "By the way, how is the weather in your, naive world?"

"Shut up." Hermione picked up a powdery, pillow shaped mint and began studying it with almost violent intensity. She began turn it in her fingers, studying it at every angle at slow, tranquil pace, while her mind began piecing information together at a bone jarring speed.

Would her Ron do such a thing? Place his own fears, his own dilemmas, into the mind of an unsuspecting enemy?

No. Not her Ron. But, then again, the Ron that existed now was not quite the same Ron that existed a two years ago, just as she was not the same Hermione as the Hermione of yesterday.

Each passing hour, each lost minute, each wasted to a modification, of sorts, to any person. One hour had the power to transform a person's life beyond recognition, either through catastrophe or miracle. One minute was enough to absorb and store a new, helpful fact, which would influence one's behavior for the rest of his natural life. And one second was enough to blink, and miss the changing of the world.

How many seconds had passed, since she and Ron parted? How many heartbeats had he counted while his soul and mind formed and grew, without anybody's influence? How long had he sat in darkness, with no power but to think of his helpless position?

Long enough to grow cruel?

Long enough to become vengeful?

God damn it.

She didn't know exactly why, but she was angry. Harry sat in impassive observation as Hermione pressed the mint against the hard, clean bar top, producing a small mound of white, fine powder.

Ron had been wonderful, as he was. Of course, he was not perfect; if he had been any where near perfection, Hermione would not have been able to stand him. But he was just right, as he was. And, just because some bastard couldn't stand the idea of letting muggles and magical people live in peace, her Ron had been changed, possibly into some vindictive man nobody knew.

God damn it.

"On the bright side," Harry commented neutrally, "we have an option."

She did not say a word for a long time. Her baby kicked once or twice, and her heart sped up and then thudded to a depressing beat as she gathered and organized her thoughts. The swinging of the backroom door caused a gust of wind to sweep away her minty mountain of dust, and an irritated Harry wiped the crushed candy off of his fingers.

"And that option is?" Hermione prodded softly, half knowing the answer.

"Getting him out of there before he grows worse, of course." His voice was so simple, so amazingly chirpy, that Hermione could not help but stare in amazement.

"You've presented an unattainable option," she argued sensibly.

"Is it Oxymoron Day? Or are you being intelligently stupid on purpose?"

"Judging by your last question, I suppose it is Oxymoron Day, you lovable git."

Harry pouted. "I don't know whether to be insulted or flattered. Oxymoron Day is so confusing. No wonder it only happens once a year."

The confused waitress had waddled by as Harry lamented the imaginary holiday, and the pair giggled like drunk children–a tragic example, to be sure, of neglectful childhood, but a hilarious sight nonetheless.

"Right," Harry said decisively, finishing his drink. "I"m going to do something wrong."

"God Harry, if it's the brown belt with black shoes again, I know you're not gay–"

"No," he interrupted patiently. "I'm going to do something wrong, to make the 'unattainable option' attainable. Do you understand?"

Despite the flippancy of his voice, Hermione accepted the question with abrupt solemnity. She nodded slowly, and twirled her stool so that she faced him directly.

Harry, upon seeing her comprehension, then braced himself. And, in that instant, Hermione knew that, whatever she was about to hear, she would not like it at all. "Will you let me do it?"

Hermione's eyes grew wider just a bit. She spoke slowly, carefully choosing her words. "I suppose that you want my permission given without giving me the details." His silence confirmed the fact. "It would be stupidity."

"To give you the details would guarantee your refusal," he argued.

"Why do you need my permission in the first place?" she demanded in exasperation. "You've been living on your own for ages now...you don't need me to tell you what to do! It's almost as if you're...you're afraid of responsibility or something, so you need somebody else to shoulder the blame!"

Harry uneasilylooked away, troubled gaze focusing on the bottles behind the counter instead on herworried eyes.

"I wouldn't be able to stand it, Harry, I just couldn't. If you do something beyond humanity, and then say, 'Well, Hermione Granger agreed with my decision'... I can't bear–"

"I can't bear the thought of losing you as a friend," Harry cut in, turning to her quickly, desperation tinging his deep voice, despite his impressive effort to hide it. He did not like being overly dependent on someone, Hermione knew that much was certain, for Harry was never really sure how long that "someone" would stick around. "I just need to know, that, after I'm done... You'll still talk to me, won't you? You wouldn't–wouldn't just wash your hands of me–"

"Oh Harry," she said softly, abhorring the lost, questioning look in his green eyes. Behind his glasses, they moved frantically, searching for any sign of abandonment in her open, honest face. "Of course I wouldn't."

"I mean it, Hermione," he continued vehemently, as if she hadn't spoken. "Promise me. You'll stay my friend. Promise me."

It was a promise that lived happily on a school yard, the childish echoes rarely trespassing beyond the students' memories. And yet, Harry said it now, seriously and with a sliver of fear.

That sliver of fear stabbed into Hermione, where it grew and spread like a blanket of ice. For him to request her oath so soberly, for him to need her so desperately... Whatever he was doing, she was not going to like it. And there was the possibility that she would never know what his atrocious deed was.

"I promise."

They were only two words, softly and reluctantly given, but proved to be more restoring than anything the bar offered. Harry smiled in satisfaction, as if he had finished "the feast of Oxymoron Day," he claimed, and suggested a return to the Burrow. She was, he said without questioning her on the matter, very tired.

xoxox

**I kind of find I like a life  
This lonely**

**Come on home by Franz Ferdinand**


	18. Boy or Girl, No third option, I think

**Tough Fluff**: Wonderful contradiction, your name, I mean.

Okay, where do I begin with your awesome review? Well, I guess the beginning (slaps forehead) duh.

Thanks

That's all.

Oh no, of course that's not all! How evil of me to leave such a horribly short response!

I"m so glad the characters are okay. I'm forever in awe of how Rowling creates such cliche yet original characters (such as Hermione–who's a nerd, but still so much more) and it's wonderful to hear that even minor characters are up to her level. Seamus was a bit tough, I admit. After his treatment of Harry, I wanted to kill him...but I suppose one couldn't kill _everybody_...

Ooh! Is it a cotton candy shrine? I love cotton candy.

To the best of my knowledge, I know of no hairy shoes stories with an older, single mother of triplets. If there are, I shall hunt them down for plagiarism. I honestly, swear to god, had no intention to have any sort of "thing" between them, but so many people are reading into their squabbles...shrugs...

Pairing her off with Percy! How the hell did you predict the ending!

Just kidding of course. I was so so so happy to know that you care about the bigger picture. I'm certain ninety percent of my readers hope she will end up with Draco, but that's not important to me. What's important is if she will end up happy.

Actually, I told my friend that Sarcasm caused Impotence, and he totally did not believe me! The nerve!

Wow. Are you a professional shrine builder? I must learn the art, for there are so many people that need them...Dr. Seuss for example...for his many contributions to the medical community...

It's strange how jaded one can get. I actually watched the Exorcist the past summer and I was completely puzzled as to why it scared my parents so much. Perhaps I'm spoiled by all the other scary movies I watch...

How lucky of you to know boy twins. I've only have many girl twins in my life, and it's frightening how back-stabbing they can get.

Hilary Duff...needs to stop...

Actually, no I don't mind if you sacrifice him, as long as you leave Prince Harry alone. I don't care if it's all publicity, I love the special Diane Sawyer did on his time in Africa...made me cry, I'll admit it...

All right, enough of this over long response. I hope you liked this chapter!

**Dastardly Snail**: I liked "trollop" better. So much prettier, I think.

Draco hiding in a zoo? Good god, that's genius! Why didn't I think of it? And who would think to look for him in a zoo?

It's El Nino. I blame that for everything. Why I'm late, why my hair gets frizzy, why we lost the election...damn you El Nino!

**Deelee**: Yes, I've thought of that possiblity. But it seems a bit too easy to me. I tried it once, on a math test. I put "2.14 or -15" which did not please my teacher at all. He said I had to choose one. I suppose that, after doing the steps and the problem, I could only arrive at once answer. So, after all these events and emotions, Hermione must end up with just one man, and I can only write a justification for one man. To write the justification for her ending up with Draco, and then turn around and contradict everything I had written to have her end up with Ron..I couldn't do it without weakening my own writing. Still, it was very tempting!

**Bella**: Ah! J'm parler français, mais,à ce moment, je veux étudier l'italien. Un jour, je vais voyager encore au france et possiblement à l'italie...êtes-vous française? Maintenant, en anglais...

I'm glad to hear that Hermione's in character. I think it's very difficult to see how Rowling's Hermione would act in a situation like this, but I hope I've done an adequate job.

**GIRL W/PNK CONVERSE**: I'm actually afraid as to what would happen if I did put in a short chapter. Possibly tarring and feathering. And then how will your hopes of an "update soon" be fulfilled? Ah well, I'm not tarred and feathered and I still did not update soon. How very hypocritical of me.

**otakuannie**: Gasp! You mean my best friends, Paragraphs and Punctation, are your enemies? Does this mean we can't talk any more? Oh no! Star crossed writers!

Yes, I had a feeling any homicidal intent would be directed towards me, so I decided to post more than two sentences...

Now, as to this "hypothetical" review (was it a review or a hatemail?)...would it be terribly vindictive of me to ask for a copy? Not that I enjoy vengeance or anything...that would be really mean... :0)

Once again, thanks again for the dialogue compliment. Gah! I blush.

**Monkeystarz**: Kid, you're so funny.

You're may be the only one who loves being "left hanging."

And I know you're the only one who views it as an opportunity for a game!

Hope you like this chappie enough to leave another hilarious review!

**loverlydaisy520:** Yes, as I was writing, I became rather annoyed with too. I hoped it wasn't against the rules to do a chapter half and half...

Oh no, bad me. I suppose that, as of writing fanfiction, I've taken advantage of not having to describe Hermione, Draco, Ron, Harry...they're all already wonderfully described. I'll try to slip in a description of Poppy somewhere, but I can't fathom I could put it...hmm...

Ah yes, Harry has recently turned 19. I've recently been told that Hermione may be possibly older than the boys, as her birthday is so late in the year, but in my story, she's recently turned 19 as well. Oh, I refer to them as real people all the time. I'm long past the point where I find this disturbing.

As to the vague hints of the conversation...no, I'd rather you didn't understand them. Not exactly sure what I meant by them either, but it's good to have a basis for something, I guess. And, sorry, it won't be explained all at once. Mostly by two chapters or three chapters or four or five...well, as you can see, I'm not the best person to ask about this story!

**Delovely:** Of course I love the Dumble. Rather reminds me of my old, near-senile French Teacher, whom I call the Kimble. Come to think of it, she terrified me...

As to Tad bit...ah well, it depends on whom he marries. If it's another man, then he can change it, can't he?

**Brandybuckbeak:** Oh, no, you're wrong. I'm a whole lotta angsty. All these jokes, all these fluffy bits...mere cover ups for my number one writing love: angst. I've actually surprised myself by how much I've held back the angst for this story.

Ooh! What funny book that had something similar to my posting? I'm very curious.

Well, I guess it'd be cruel of me to post a five sentence chapter, and see if you survive...all in the name of science of course...

Yes! I was especially sore from the whole portrayal of the Mines of Moria! I loved how Tolkien wrote Pippin's scenes in that, and I couldn't understand why they had to be changed.

Also, OF COURSE! Tom Bombadil. I find it BEYOND annoying when I mention him, and all the stupid people who only saw the movie stare blankly at me. He did exist, god damn it!

Gah! I hate run-on sentences! They burn my eyes! Another reason I could never be a teacher; I would attempt to skewer anybody who dared to forget to put a period of a semi-colon where they belong...

No! You own the exact same shirt! My god! We're soul mates! Sound too scary? Fine, we're best friends. If you have a Mighty Mouse, "Please Don't Interrupt me While I'm Ignoring you," "If I throw a stick will you leave?" and "Vegas is for Luvas" shirt, I will charge you of stalking and copying my wardrobe. I'm a tee fanatic. At work, I found a Mr. Roger's "I'm special!" t-shirt, but it was too big. Okay, that's not really related, now, is it?

Warning, Brandybuckbeak: Too many cheeky winks in reviews give people the wrong idea. You know what they say about cheeky winking girls, don't you? You don't? Well, neither do I.

Oh, go on, shamelessly plug your own fic. I only have a problem with people I don't know advertising themselves. Oh, and those people who can't write worth shit. Yes, those people bug me as well...

Have fun reading, with or without your sanity (I imagine it's more fun without...that way, if my chapter's crap, you're too loony to notice...)

**oli**: Heya, thanks again for being so nice and emailing your review!

Glad you liked the structure. I was a bit nervous about using that format, but one Meg Cabot book totally swayed me.

I'm a bit flattered that there's Adelaide E gloom and doom. Should I copyright it? Yes, I believe I should...

Poppy and Harry? Didn't we just establish that they dislike each other? I seem to have a habit of creating chemistry when I do not mean to...

Is it weird that I actually find the idea of Harry being a jockey more appealing than a dominatrix? Yes, I guess it is. But really, I find all those little outfits so cute. And those helmets...aw...

No, I don't think of jokes for ages–anything that requires that much thought surely isn't funny. If something pops into my head while I'm typing, then I'll include it in the story, even if I'm the only one who thinks it's hilarious. I do like to keep referring to them though, as people in real life do, for sake of continuity...

I don't know. I tried to get into the Anne Rice vampire type, but they're not as fun as the L.J. Smith vampires. I find Quinn completely hilarious, even when he's supposed to be serious. For example, when he first meets Rashel?

I laugh in the face of death. No, wait, I lie silently in the face of death. Either way, strip me before you make me a shish kabob. You'll get a decent view and I need an ego boost before meeting my maker.

I was going to be a highschool teacher...but, after a few days in the teacher's shoes, I decided I would never become a successful teacher without the reinstatement of corporeal punishment.

It sounds like you had an...er...interesting childhood!

If I ever saw Poppy's kids I'd...be utterly amazed at the resurrection of my literary concoctions.

Thanks so much! I hope you like this chapter!

**Fizzie-lizzie:** ah yes, well. I'm assuming that, like other reviewers, your response was mysteriously cut off. If not, and that's all you wrote, it's still pretty understandable.

I love that band. I love that band. I love that band. Oh and...yes, I still love that band.

How can you not love a band whose original goal was to make music girls can dance to?

I'm a girl. I love to dance. They're lovely.

Honestly, I'm afraid I could write forty pages as to why I love them. How I hate myself for being out of the country when they toured. But, then, it would probably frustrate people who actually want to read. Silly people. What are they thinking, wanting to find fanfiction on ffnet...

The Painted Past

Chapter 18

**"Ah, when two Neptunes appear in the sky**

xoxox

"C'mon, Bill, c'mon! It's doing it again!"

"Shut up," Bill said tiredly, watching Fred lay his head on Hermoine's rotund figure with disgust. "The entire house is tired of you announcing every time the baby kicks."

"Yes," Percy agreed from his chair near the fire place, "nobody cares, Fred."

"You only say nobody cares because it never kicks for you," Fred retorted, angling his head so that his ear lay more comfortably on her belly.

"Shouldn't you take it as a bad sign that the infant protests so violently whenever you draw near?" Percy pointed out with an arched brow.

Bill laughed as Fred, in a rare moment of speechlessness, could not find a proper rejoinder.

"Doesn't matter," Fred muttered, sitting up next to his pregnant friend. "It's stopped."

At that moment, George strolled into the room, and heard his twin brother's last few words. "Damn! It was kicking again? And nobody told me!"

Upon hearing his lament, Fred was ready to pounce on Bill, and prove that people _did _care, when Hermione awoke from George's rather loud volume.

"Wha–How did–" The Weasley boys watched her innocently as she struggled to recover from her nap. "What was I doing?" she asked them confusedly.

"Providing entertainment," Bill answered wryly as he left in search of a snack.

"But I was sleeping," Hermione protested, looking to the remaining boys for explanation. When none came, she only added, "And, really, you shouldn't let me doze off like that. Suppose I got a crick in my neck or something?"

"If an aching neck were in any way to stop the kicking, then, I'd care," George said heartlessly as he found himself a comfortable spot on the rug at her feet.

"I'll show you kicking," she mumbled, and lifted her foot threateningly. In a charitable effort to save his brother from a bruising, Fred answered her original question.

"You were killing things, before you fell asleep," Fred reminded her cheerfully.

"Killing things," she repeated in amazement. Then Hermione pursed her lips in irritation when Fred picked up a pair of sharp, knitting needles, which were in the process of producing a baby jumper.

"See?" Fred shook the project for good measure. "You were stabbing ugly, misshapen creatures of unknown origin. Probably sneaked out of the attic or something."

"That," Hermione seethed, snatching it out of his hand, "is the baby's jumper. I'm not finished yet."

George observed the object with keen interest. "So, you already know, then, that your baby will have no limbs, whatsoever? It's amazing. So much kicking, and all appendages stolen away by inbreeding."

Hermione inhaled deeply, and counted to ten. "I haven't added the sleeves yet. Those will come later."

"Along with shape, and style, apparently," Fred laughed, but stopped when he was threatened with the business end of a knitting needle.

For the time being, Hermione was at the mercy of these careless and thoughtless males. Molly and Arthur were out on "damage control." And it was all Harry's fault.

Things began simply enough. Molly, with a rather optimistic faith in her boys, had sent Harry, Fred, George, and Charlie off to run a few errands in St. Ottery Catchpole, for, this was Hermione's first real Christmas without her parents, and Mrs. Weasley believed a few, nonmagic prepared meals would comfort her. Harry she had sent because he was the most muggle-learned wizard who was not in a delicate condition. Charlie she had sent because Harry did not appear strong enough to carry all the parcels, despite how much food she had stuffed down the boy's throat. And Fred and George she had sent mostly because having them around the house was giving her a migraine.

And then, there had to be a pretty muggle at the shop. And Harry had to notice her. And Charlie had to egg on the boy to go on and ask her out.

Naturally, Harry refused.

And, even more naturally than Mother Nature herself, the twins found this to be a good reason to start picking on him.

And it was a terrible setting to have four, presumably "grown" young men tease and taunt each other in the tiny butcher's shop. For one, it was entirely too small a space to start scuffling. Also, to start playful fisticuffs during the butcher shop's busiest hour was an extremely bad idea. And, they would later say desperately while giving Molly Weasley many excuses, the prevalence of raw meat fed their naturally violent and blood thirsty minds.

"In the course of events"–Molly, they learned, preferred to hear that phrase than the actual, idiotic play-by-play–Harry had ended up yelling, amidst the fists and the flurry, "Because I don't have a bloody car, and muggle girls expect you to have a car! I can't very well pick her up on my goddamn broom, now, can I?"

This, in itself, was inexplicable enough.

But, genius that he was, George retorted in an absurdly loud voice, "I recall a certain, gangly boy telling me, 'In case you've forgotten, we're all wizards here.' Make a carriage with your wand."

The fact that they were all mature young men acting like complete barbarians was unforgivable enough. The fact that they were spouting nonsense about brooms, wands, wizardry...oh, and Harry's uncouth swearing, made the unruly four sinful enough for a very warm sentencing in the middle of an executing bonfire.

So, Charlie, in a rather belated effort to salvage their secrecy, struck up a pleasant conversation with the elderly, the boringly dressed, and all the respectful-looking people of the tiny, cosy butcher shop. With the disturbing mental image of his parents being run out of town with torches, pitchforks, and toothless people–for there was always a toothless person in an evicting mob–Charlie promised his family's appearance in St. Ottery Catchpole's neighborhood caroling group.

So now, only two weeks before Christmas, Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley, Charlie, and Ginny were off rehearsing Christmas songs with tone deaf and ecstatic carolers. Ginny had been browbeaten into accompanying them, out of her "unending sense of generosity," according to her words, and also because she "wouldn't see a ribbon of a present" if she didn't come, according to Charlie. The only reason Bill, Percy, and the twins hadn't gone as well was because "somebody had to hold down the fort," which had been Bill's exact words. Also, despite his extensive dragon training, Charlie hadn't been fast nor strong enough to catch and force them. Besides, the traditional carolers would not have enjoyed the addition of Fred and George, both of whom thoroughly enjoyed their annual habits of Christmas spirit.

At their age of seven, the mysterious appearance of a smelly herd of rosy nosed reindeer had cut the evening short.

In the twins' tenth Christmas, a naked Good King Wenceslas had also made the caroling route unusually brief. The men had been appalled, and the women had been interested.

One time, the snowmen-sentinels of the Weasley residence had come to life, in hopes of avenging the death of their fallen comrade, Frosty, whose death was now disrespectfully remembered in cheerful song.

And Mrs. Weasley, nor the entire town, for that matter, could not forget when a fat, pimply, diapered child of indefinite gender had followed the troop of carolers, asking them loudly, "_What_ child am I?"

Luckily, nobody had connected the rather strange events to the mischievous pair because, for the most part, the Weasley elders had ensured that nobody would remember. Still, neither Molly nor Arthur were willing to take the risk of discovery, should Fred or George become inspired and force the lot to "wassail," or cloak the entire town in silence for a night.

Harry had left only five minutes after they had gone, supposedly to offer moral, if not musical, support. This Hermione believed to be completely false. True, the matters between Harry and Ginny had been markedly improved since Ginny had said her piece, but that did not mean Harry was willing to spend a miserable day doing miserable things with the miserably singing girl.

No. He had left because Hermione had been watching him like a hawk ever since she had given him her promise. She had even taken to listening outside his door, just in case he mumbled his plans in his sleep. And, in those instances when he awoke, he could not scold her on her nosiness, for she always claimed to be "getting a snack."

Bill returned, and sat next to George on the floor. The pair, because they were immature, brothers, and simply themselves, began to quibble over Bill's plate of biscuits. Hermione watched in interest until she grew tired of the noise and divided the treats equally.

"Don't upset her boys," Fred warned. "The baby'll pop out and then you'll have the mess all over you, in that dangerous location."

Before Hermione could reply that, should she go into labour, it would take hours before the natal "mess" to pour out, giving the boys plenty of time to move out of the way, Percy spoke skeptically.

"Very likely. Considering, according to her, that the baby was due a week and half ago, I highly doubt it's going to happen any time soon."

"Still in the room," she reminded him acidly. "Pregnancy does not mean I cannot hear prats speak nonsense."

"But it's not nonsense, is it?" Bill said. "Really, where did you get a date so off the mark? Trelawny?"

Hermione recommenced her knitting, the clicks conveying her annoyance. "The doctor said so. Besides, it's common knowledge that babies can be late."

"True," Bill agreed, for his younger brothers knew nothing of babies. "Perce there was with Mum for almost ten months."

"Then he slid out and we were forevermore cursed," Charlie finished, appearing suddenly with a pop.

"Is it possible to sit in a room with you all without being abused for ten minutes?" Percy demanded, shutting his book.

Fred smiled pleasantly. "How about an experiment? Close your eyes and trust us not to hit you."

"What are you doing here?" Hermione asked Charlie, who was shedding layer upon layer of snowy wraps. "Surely it's not done yet."

"Oh yes it is," Charlie said, face red from the cold. "Somehow, a group of cross-dressing gentlemen–all named Mary, mind you– interrupted us, asking if we knew a place where 'God would let them rest.'"

"Ginny," Fred crowed joyously. "Fantastic!"

"It would have been better," George said contemplatively, "if they had appeared in the church. For what more restful place is there?"

"You two are terrible," Molly Weasley said, being a less showy person than her son and using the front door. "And influencing your sister like that–"

"There's no definite proof it was me!" Ginny interrupted defensively, walking in right after her. "How do you know there isn't a convention in town or something?"

"Because one of them," Arthur grumbled as he crossed the threshold and helped them out of their coats, "bore a disturbing resemblance to your uncle."

"Adoptive uncle," Ginny corrected with a sniff. "Besides, Mary's hair was not violet; it was indigo."

"Which Mary?" Charlie asked with a grin.

As usual, it was tight fit in the Burrow when all the Weasleys came home for the holidays. That tight fit became positively constrictive with the arrivals of Harry, Hermione, and Ginny's new pet–a monkey like rock coincidentally named Percivale– upon the household.

Harry's stay was temporary, of course. In the noble deed of putting a sunroof in Number Twelve, Bill and Percy had made the endeavor impossible by completely destroying anything that resembled the roof. So, out of a sense of obligation, they had invited Harry to stay at the Burrow. Also, they preferred the abandoning git to the "ancient mediocre Quidditch player" their little sister was dating now. Everybody generally liked to ignore the fact that Oliver was the same age as Percy, just as they liked to ignore Ginny's pleas of inviting him for the holidays.

"Where is Harry?" Mr. Weasley asked, shaking the snow out of his hair.

"Out," Bill guessed.

"Out where?" Mrs. Weasley demanded, tying on her apron.

"Of the closet," Fred answered without the tiniest of smiles. "Damnedest thing, mum. It seems as if dating our dear Ginny has turned Harry off the female gender entirely–"

"He went for a walk," Hermione filled in, shooting Fred a glare while Ginny attempted to suffocate her older brother with a cushion, which he was skillfully dodging. "I believe he said something about visiting a car dealership."

"Whatever for?" Ginny scoffed as she settled for simply throwing the pillow at him. "We have a perfectly good–"

"Harry wants something a little less classic...and air-oriented."

The Weasleys accepted the fact without further ado, and went about preparing for supper. For once, Ginny was not in charge of helping her mother, and left the kitchen work for the clumsy boys. Hermione, the Weasleys learned, hated to be so helpless while they rushed about, and needed to be distracted. So, Ginny stayed by her side.

"How about...William?" Ginny suggested, holding Percivale in her arms. It was distracting business, for the rock of indeterminate breed–Metamorphic, Hermione observantly believed, and not Moon, as Bill stubbornly claimed–constantly attempted escape.

"No," Hermione sighed, absently making the jumper the length of two babies. "I went to primary school with a William. He kept sniffing my hair."

"Are you sure he was sniffing it on purpose, or that he just couldn't avoid running into it?" Ginny wondered. Hermione paused in her knitting long enough to scowl at the younger girl, and the Weasley shrugged. "Well, Hermione, you have to admit, your hair was rather large–"

"I like...Edmund," Hermione said briskly, the needles clicking once more.

"Does he like Turkish Delight?" asked a passing Charlie. He disappeared upstairs before she could defend her choice.

"Oliver," Ginny suggested, and several gags and scoffs could be heard from the kitchen.

"Richard?"

"I had a friend named Dick," Percy called.

"Funny you should mention that. I have a brother–ow!" And Fred never mentioned what his brother was, for Mrs. Weasley's hand had a tremendous silencing effect.

"What about Malcolm?"

"I had actually already considered that...But I don't like the shape my mouth makes when I say it."

Ginny nodded understandingly. "Let's move onto girl names again. Did we decide on Ginnerva?"

She rolled her eyes. "I was thinking more on...Mary."

"As in Bloody?"

"Don't be morbid," Bill reproved from the other room.

"Clearly, she means Typhoid," Harry joked, stepping loudly down the stairs. Charlie followed closely, his expression almost equal to the surprise on the girls' faces.

"Lily, I think," Harry said, lying himself flat on the rug before the fireplace, "is a beautiful name."

"Oh yes," Ginny agreed sarcastically. "That bastard would love that."

"Well, that bastard has no say in the matter."

Hating to hear her beloved referred to in such an illegitimate manner, Hermione spoke up lightly. "How did you get upstairs without us noticing?"

"Climbed through the window," he answered with a shrug. "Using doors is so passé." At the girls' continued astonishment, he rolled his eyes. "For god's sake, I apparated."

"Oh, well, if you were doing it for a divine purpose, I suppose I can forgive your lack of manners," Hermione replied nonchalantly. Harry opened his mouth to protest such an accusation when she anticipated it and answered. "Leaving without a good bye, and then appearing without a proper hello. Honestly, Harry."

"Not completely honest," Mr. Weasley interrupted, coming into the room. "For he never told me of his secret homosexuality." Arthur smilingly ignored Harry's unmanly squawk of indignation. "Come on, time to eat."

In the loud and friendly confusion of passing each other certain dishes, Ginny grabbed hold of Harry's hand while he was handing her a basket of bread.

"For god's sake, Ginny," Fred moaned in embarrassment, "no means no. Besides, he's mine."

"Look at his knuckles," Ginny told her mum curiously, ignoring both Fred's teasing and Harry's desperate attempts to jerk his hand back without appearing rude. "They're bleeding."

Before Hermione could even lean a centimetre closer to observe the wounds, Molly Weasley was at his side and clucking like a mother hen.

"Harry! Have you been brawling?"

Harry definitely could not jerk his hand out of Mrs. Weasley's grasp without hurting her feelings, so he only slumped and looked up at her with an expression Hermione knew very well. The young witch half expected him to lower his chin and murmur a pitiful, "I love you."

But Harry did not have a chance to use the melty card. Molly rapped his wrist lightly. "Harry," she repeated, tone growing slightly harder. "Have you been brawling?"

Quite put out that he had no option of escape, Harry shrugged, in that maddening, brooding, devil-may-care way.

"Arthur!" Mrs. Weasley said loudly, as if the man weren't two steps away from her. The Weasley brood rolled their eyes; all knew that familiar tone, calling for reinforcement.

"Yes, dear?" Arthur murmured automatically, patting his belly in a satisfied manner.

"Harry will not tell me if he's engaged in juvenile fisticuffs."

"Oh, is that all? Harry?"

"Yes sir?"

"Have you engaged in juvenile fisticuffs?"

"No sir, they were all grown men."

"Oh, all right. There you have it, Molly. Think, next time, before you jump to conclusions."

The only person who was not laughing by the quick and pleasant exchange was Molly, who had been charmed enough by both husband and boy to avoid outright anger, but still pricked by small indignation.

"Harry," she scolded as she returned to her seat. "You know better. I've told you time and time again that striking the reporters solves nothing."

"Well, I apparated here to try to hide it from you, knowing how much it would upset you. There goes that idea," Harry sighed with a shrug. "Besides, they've been getting disturbingly closer to the Burrow."

"Perhaps, when Hermione's baby is born, the press will die down in respect to the newborn," Fred suggested brightly.

George turned to his brother with a concerned expression. "I'm sorry. Are you new here?"

Charlie was less subtle, and cuffed the back of his younger brother's head. "Idiot. We'll have to beat them away from the windows."

"We should revive the evil snowmen, to stand guard," Ginny suggested brightly.

"Well, it's Hermione's baby, we'll let her decide how to deal with them," Mr. Weasley said contentedly.

"Not likely," Charlie protested. "After it's born, she'll be in that 'The world is wonderful' sort of mood, and not want to harm anybody."

"Because we all know that you have so much postnatal experiences," Harry spoke up dryly.

Hermione, though she was the subject of the playful conversation, was not intensely focused on their words. Rather, she stared at Harry's bloody and bruised knuckles, and then looked above her, wishing she could see through walls.

Harry hadn't apparated to hide the evidence of his skirmishes, for, obviously, he was not presently concerned with his accidental discovery. He was hiding evidence of something else.

She blinked owlishly, only then realising that Ginny had been snapping her fingers not an inch from her nose.

"Hermione? Hermione? Did you hear anything we've just suggested?"

Hermione blushed, embarrassed.

"It's just as well," Harry commented. "That idea of stuffing them all in a wicker man was just a tad morbid."

"She's daydreaming about the dessert, I wager," George laughed. "She hasn't eaten a bite in, oh...two minutes, so I believe she's sadly overdue."

"George!" Arthur chided.

"Well, it's true," Fred argued. "She's overdue, in one way at least."

"I have a very good and trouncing response," Hermione warned him, "but, I must be excused for more pressing matters."

"That means," George said in an overly loud whisper to Bill, "that the baby is pressing on her bladder."

Hermione left the pair to suffer from Molly's upbraiding, and waddled her way out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She hadn't been lying. She believed there was a pressing matter to be investigated...in Ron's room.

They were the only two, really, who spent time in there. Molly insisted that Hermione room with Ginny, in case Hermione had needs that could not be asked of a boy. But, in her spare time or whenever she and Harry wished to talk, play cards, or simply sit around in boredom, Hermione found herself in Ron's room.

Harry, despite his messy habits, had not changed much of Ron's sanctuary. Many nicknacks and souvenirs remained in their original places. The only notable changes were the rumpled bed sheets, and the disorderly arrangement of comic books, which, of course, Harry had to read.

Hermione tip toed into the cold, dark room, not daring to use her wand nor a candle, in a paranoid fear of having Harry notice the shafts of light that managed to leak through the cracks of the floor.

She tapped her chin thoughtfully, eyes dependant on the waning light of sunset. Where would Harry hide something? Under the floor planks? No, surely that would be too much of an orphan-cliché. Under the mattress? No, that was too much of a teenager-cliché. So where...

"What are you doing?" Harry asked sharply.

Hermione turned, stifling a gasp, and found her best friend at the door way. Her hand reached blindly behind her, and grasped the edge of a paper. "Reading," she answered immediately and without any faltering.

"What?" She relaxed marginally; he did not sound so suspicious as before.

Squashing any surprise, Hermione glanced at the wrinkled, notebook paper with forced idleness. "Oh," she emitted, hoping she wasn't too surprised. "It's a letter from Poppy. Pig must have just delivered it."

If he found anything amiss with her wondering tone, Harry gave no indication. "And? What does the little she-devil say?"

"She says use Hedwig again, for her girls attempted to add Pig to the stew."

The pair turned a sympathetic eye to the small animal, who sat next to Harry's more dignified pet on the window sill. He had been a rather agitated and restless animal, so the thought of using him as a messenger seemed ideal to Hermione. Now it seemed that they would be forced to place in him inactive duty once more.

"Oh." Harry gave her an odd look, but suspected nothing. "Come on."

"Dessert's ready?"

"Yes, but that's not the point. Ginny's put something in Bill's tart, and there's only a ten minute window to see what happens."

"She doesn't know? Shouldn't she test the safety of something before using it on another person?"

Harry smiled at her as he escorted her down the stairs. "What's the fun of that?"

And, while it somewhat fun to see Bill's eyes repel each other, so that his pupils were in constantly different directions, Hermione spent the remainder of the evening in her own, troubling thoughts. Obviously, whatever Harry had accomplished was not monstrous, nor very dangerous. He would have not brought it to the Burrow if it could accidentally cause somebody harm. Perhaps he had dropped it off somewhere else?

The next day, because Harry had nothing else to do, he promised to take Hermione to Grimmauld Place, at her strangely persistent request. It was difficult persuading Mrs. Weasley, however, to allow such an impromptu field trip.

"Suppose your water breaks, hmm?" she demanded anxiously as Harry, in an effort to emulate Molly's overprotective habits, wrapped Hermione up like an insulated mummy. "Harry, do you even know what should be done when a baby is born?"

"Count all the fingers and toes," Harry answered promptly, pulling a thick, knitted cap over Hermione's ears. "Oh, and chop off all the extra ones."

"Harry!" Hermione attempted to scold, but, through the excess material, all he heard was a supportive "Hooray!"

Thankfully, Mrs. Weasley spoke for her. "Harry!"

"I'm not serious, of course," Harry scoffed, throwing on a rather worn scarf and nothing else. "Who wouldn't want to keep an extra toe? Surely, that's a blessing."

"Harry," Hermione warned. If he continued in such a playful manner, Mrs. Weasley wouldn't let Hermione a foot beyond the garden with Harry, much less to another city.

Again, he pretended to misinterpret his best friend. "Stop cheering, Hermione, and save some of that enthusiasm for Number Twelve. I've made a few changes, you know."

"You're not wearing just that, are you?" Molly observed Harry's ensemble with some worry. Harry did the same, and found nothing wrong with his jeans, his H knitted jumper, and his red and gold scarf. "You're practically naked," Molly scolded.

"Well...I suppose, with a marker, I could re-establish the lightning scar," Harry murmured dubiously, when Hermione, becoming very impatient, stamped her foot.

"It'll be warm at Grimmauld Place," Harry said over his shoulder as he pushed Hermione out the door. "I promise."

He lied. Not an hour later, Harry swung open the door of Number Twelve to reveal a large pile of snow sitting amidst the ruins.

"Harry," Hermione breathed as she unwrapped her third scarf, amazed by the over all destruction of the home. It was beyond recognition. Everything was either stripped, painted, or covered in snow.

"No, no," he protested, "Hooray. You should be saying 'Hooray.' Come now, you've been saying it all morning."

"It's a mess," she proclaimed, wandering the one, enormous room where the multi-chambered house of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place had once been. "It's an absolute sty. I cannot believe that you have spent all these months–"

"Shut up, Hermione," he interrupted easily, unwrapping his own scarf. "You haven't seen the best part."

"Considering the horrible state of matters, a tragic, razing fire would be 'the best part.'"

Harry emitted a _tsk, tsk_, and then moved to the shapeless mound of snow that squatted in his living room. Upon closer inspection, Hermione saw it was not a random result of precipitation, but a planned, obese form.

A snowman.

"No," Harry corrected loftily when she spoke her observation dully. "It's a snow-butler."

Then, to prove his rather ridiculous words, Harry took both his and her scarves, and hung it on one of the protruding branches.

"Pickersnit, my good man, take care of those, will you?" The snow-butler accepted it with obedient silence...and no other reaction, whatsoever.

"And he's dirt-cheap, as well," Harry said as an aside.

"Harry," she admonished seriously, stepping away from the childish product and aiming to the unstable stairs. "Harry, this is inexcusable."

"What is?" he asked flippantly, arranging the bow tie the twins had given Pickersnit.

"This!" She gestured widely, and Harry tilted his head in puzzlement. "This, Harry, all this. All this nonsense, all this planning, all this wastefulness. It's appalling."

He was her best friend. They both knew it. Being a best friend meant that she was to tease him about girls, ensure he did not suffer too much pain, guarantee him candidacy of god fatherhood, and other, helpful items such as those. But being a best friend also meant doing the things one did not enjoy at all.

Such as forcing his eyes open.

"Okay, okay, so the choices of furniture haven't been the best..." Harry was saying in mild annoyance.

"No, Harry," she interrupted, pitying him, and hating how such pity was unavoidable. Gingerly, she lowered herself to sit on the last stair. "Harry, why do you do this? Why do you suspend things so?"

"What are you talking about?" he asked with a sigh. He turned to Pickersnit. "Do you have any idea what she's talking about?"

She refused to laugh, feeling instinctively that Harry knew exactly what she meant. "Do you even want to finish this house? Do you even have the smallest desire to have it done?"

He rolled his eyes, and began to wander around Pickersnit aimlessly. "Women. Never listen. I told you that I wanted to make sure the designs were definite before I built–"

"It's not true Harry," she protested forcefully, "and you know it. You haven't put an inkling into designs and plans. You don't want to. You want this to last forever."

"I want this half built, roofless establishment to last forever? Very likely, Hermione. Pregnancy has definitely taken its toll–"

"What do you plan after construction?" she asked, her delicate features etched with worry. "Have you thought about that? What happens in February?"

Harry had stopped shuffling around now, and regarded her with a half suspicious, half tempted look. Hermione had seen it once, on an enemy, when she ordered a younger student to help the injured bastard up. He had wanted the help, but was it genuine? Would he be hurt afterwards?

Harry wanted to hear her words, but would it destroy this happy world he's built? Where he had no pressing purpose, no great burden–for his shoulders ached so, having carried the world on them for so long–but where he was not completely useless–this house needed him, the memories needed to be erased...

"Have you thought about after the successes? What do you plan to do after Ron comes back? What do you plan to do once the house is finished? What happens the day after?"

He knew what to say now, thank god. "Well now," he answered tartly, stuffing his hands into his pockets, "I won't have to worry about that, now, will I? There'll be no successes, not with your bastard hiding away–"

"And if we find him," she pushed, tone hardening. "And if we find him, and if we succeed, what will your mission be then?"

"I don't ask for bloody missions," he snapped, voice rising without warning. "I don't enjoy righting wrongs." Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off again. "I don't have a fucking rescue complex."

"I don't mean to say that," she argued.

"Then what the fuck do you mean?"

"I mean," she snarled, hating how closed off his eyes had become, "grow up. Stop playing here with your aimless hammering and fruitless ideas. This is just a playground, for you, Harry James Potter, and you know it. It's something to point to when somebody accuses you of idleness."

"Oh so sorry," he replied acidly, "So immensely sorry that not all of us can multitask as you do. I should be crucified for not being so talented as you, to be teaching the future, to be bringing new life into the world, to be aiding and abetting known criminals, to be lying to my best friend–"

Hermione felt her face flame up with anger and shame, and her hands began to tremble, as if too much emotion was surging through her to be leashed quietly. "This isn't about me–"

"The hell it isn't, Hermione," he corrected snidely, swiftly placing himself before her. "Who the hell are you to tell me that my life is in shambles? Have you taken a good look at your biography lately?"

Oh, that hurt. That hurt more than anything, more than the furtive looks of students, more than the insinuating comments of parents. It hurt more than the silence some of her old class mates had given her, and it hurt more than the pity some wizards and witches would send her.

It hurt because he was her best friend, and he was the last one left. The last one who was to ensure that this sort of burning, stinging pain didn't come anywhere near her.

"My life is fine, thanks," Harry said emphatically. "Go and donate your time to somebody who really needs help Hermione."

"I'm worried about you," she cried defensively, struggling to rise to her feet. Despite his incensed state of mind, he was not so irrational that he did not help her up. "The only reason I say these things is because I don't want to see you feeling invalidated come the new year. I hate the thought of you searching for a purpose, Harry. You're better than all this. You're so much better."

"How the bloody hell do you know that?" he asked her incredulously. "How do you know what I'm better than, or what I'm good for? Maybe this is what I'm meant to do, Hermione. Waste my time and money on a hopeless endeavor. I've got plenty of both, we know that."

"God Harry! That is unforgivable! That is disgusting!" She shook her head, unable to comprehend such an attitude. "For you to fight so hard, for you to have done so much, only to end up as a nothing! As a nobody!"

"I'm not nobody! I'm not a nothing! I'm Harry Potter, in case you've forgotten, and I'm so fucking tired of people expecting so much from me! Can't a man get break? I'm tired, Hermione! I'm so, so tired! Let me rest!"

"For how long? Harry, how long do you intend to spend life like this? Wasting life like this? What will you do, when there's nobody to visit, and there's nobody to come and help you play carpenter? What will you do?"

"Don't tell me how to live my life, Hermione," he warned her quietly.

"If only you would live it," she lamented with an equally subdued tone.

He looked away then, his mouth moving as if attempting to swallow the taste of something bitter, and disagreeing. He turned away from her altogether, and moved haltingly about the enormous room. His feet made hollow, echoing claps along the hardwood floor of the kitchen, and then muffled, soggy sounds on the livingroom carpet.

Hermione settled herself once more on the last step, and wished she could reach him. Make him understand. She didn't want him to live life according to her, or society's wishes. She didn't want him to continue to be a role model for the masses, or to acquire a greater purpose with his newfound power.

She just wanted him to be Harry.

And shying away from life, pretending responsibilities...that was not Harry.

If only she could let him see that.

"I just," she began half heartedly as he gazed out the windows. "It's just that..."

Never even turning to face her, he merely shook his head. "Let me rest, Hermione."

And, though he did not witness it, she nodded with reluctant indulgence, knowing that, while she could not motivate him about his future, she could accept his present.

"You know then," she began again dully. "You know that I've lied."

"Yes." The single word held not a note of disapproval. Instead, it was heartbreakingly matter of fact. Hermione hated to hear such an emotionless tone used towards her.

"Are you angry?" Hermione asked cautiously. Again, never facing her, he shook another negative.

"Not angry, per se. Then again, I've never been in love. I don't understand what could motivate someone like you to lie for someone like him...and I don't think I ever will."

"Not unless you fall in love," she reminded him gently.

This time, he did face her, and leaned against the window sill with crossed arms. "I don't want to," he told her gravely. "I don't like how it can change you. I want to stay the same."

"It's impossible," she warned him softly. "Besides, I've changed, and you still like me."

"You're different. You're likable. I'm a risk. I can become unlikable, given the smallest instigation. Look how I've treated you, because of my best mate's situation. And I'm not in love with Ron. Just think of how insane I'd become should I fall in love with someone."

And, while these words could have been said with a playful smirk and laughing eyes, Hermione saw that Harry meant everything he had said. And, worse yet, she understood them to be true. For if there was one definite description about him, that would last through any phase of his life, it would be this: intense. What Harry believed in, he believed in to the death.

"Why did you want to come here, again?" he asked abruptly, standing up and brushing the snow off his bum.

To investigate. To look furtively under rugs and behind stair cases for evidence. To be an underhanded bitch to her most treasured friend. "No reason in particular," Hermione sighed, standing once more. "To get out of the house really. They're driving me mad."

It was odd, really, to be on such amiable terms after such a violent row. He had dropped quite a few smarting hints. She had pointed out some painful aspects. But still, those arguments, they understood, were spoken on the solid basis of friendship. They both knew that they could utter the worst of insults, the most cutting of criticisms, and that they'd end up speaking to each other once more by week's end. It was simply the way their relationship had been for quite some time now.

Harry nodded, and retrieved the scarves from Pickersnit and handed them to Hermione.

"Thank him, you ungrateful wench," he muttered as he escorted her out. She giggled, and tossed a few, happy words to the immobile snowman over her shoulder as they left.

By the time they returned, most of the family had returned to the Burrow. The twins had closed shop early, as they had been doing for a few weeks now, "in respect to the holidays." Also, Fred and George and Jordan liked to complain, it did get very annoyingly busy, with so many wizards and witches wishing to buy playful presents. They did not like the hassle at all.

Charlie, however, was not present, for, at rehearsal, he had managed to snag a date with the pretty muggle that had instigated the entire catastrophe in the first place, and was escorting her to a local play that evening. They were walking, Bill reported, which did not seem to please the girl very much.

Mr. Weasleys was also conspicuous in his absence, and Molly was very irritated with the fact indeed. It was shameful, they all agreed when she muttered it, that he would work overtime in this season.

It should be noted that Percy was absent as well, but, other than his mother, and Fred, who had wished to test a new product on him, nobody commented on this particular Weasley's absence. Bill had uttered something about hoping that Percy did well on the interview, for he was tired to hearing his younger brother's reprimands of messiness.

Hermione, of course, was still quite against apparating. And Harry, though he trusted the quality of his broom immensely, did not want to see it tragically snapped in two pieces under her weight. Both were certain, without speaking of it naturally, that the invisibility cloak was not wide enough to hide the both of them.

Neither gave any indication of hearing the reporters, who had stood waiting a good distance away from the snowmen sentinels of the Burrow. This morning, Hermione had planned the departure early enough to avoid the press who milled around the small town innocently. But now, as Harry held her hand tightly, turning here and there to avoid running into them, Hermione knew that no amount of planning could make this die out. Perhaps, after a few months, the interest would die...but, a few years later, somebody would do a piece on a war anniversary. A reporter would wish for an interview, a "What's she up to now?" sort of article. Her child would have to grow up as The Criminal's son or That Escaped Convict's daughter. They would plague her offspring just as they plagued her now. And, worst of all, Hermione realised she would not always be there to stop it.

Harry was very good, which was extraordinary. His grip sometimes became tighter when they asked Hermione an outrageously invasive question. His jaw became tense when they redirected their attention to him. Still, the pair were stalwartly wordless, looking straight ahead as if there were no muggle-dressed wizards dogging their heels, and that they were taking a zig-zag route through St. Ottery Catchpole for amusement's sake.

"Who warms your bed now that your done with Finnigan, Granger?"

"Can't answer the question, Potter? Running away again, eh? Well, I should have expected that, shouldn't I?"

It was in the job description, Hermione supposed, to ask those crude questions, and to goad the reluctant interviewee to reaction. She had been naive during her Hogwarts years, believing that those silly romantic rumours were annoying. Those were gentle, baby fibs compared to what the press wrote now. Youth had given Harry and her protection from the vulgar sort of publicity. Now that they were no longer role models, no longer innocents, the journalists had a merry time with their names and reputations.

The Burrow was in sight now, and only thirty steps away. Soon, the snowmen would sense the approaching press, and spring to life.

"D'you think your mum would be proud of your cowardly behaviour, Potter?" one man sneered as he slowed his pace.

Damn, Hermione thought. They had been so close without incident. Hermione attempted to tug on Harry's hand, but her friend was determined to stop.

They were on Weasley property now, and the reporter could not follow. But Harry released Hermione's hand to leave the sanctuary of private land, and cheerfully walked to stand before the impressively large, evidently muscled man. The reporter did not even bother to back away, only scribbling swiftly as he described Harry's reaction.

"Tell me, Irving," Harry said pleasant, hands sliding into his pockets. Hermione feared that he was reaching for his wand, and was confused when he merely kept them in there. "How is your mother?"

Irving puffed his chest out proudly. "Very happy now that I've exposed your true character."

It was difficult to understand which "true character" he was referring to. Hermione knew that some had painted Harry's return as heroic, coming when the Ministry needed to catch the most villainous criminal. Others found his six month sabbatical childish and cowardly, stating that he only dropped by because he had heard his former rival was in custody, and was pettily hoping to see him hanged. A few conspiracy theorists believed that the entire return and the entire escape was a staged incident between Potter and Malfoy, who both wished to expand their war-founded celebrity as long as possible.

"She's happy, you say," Harry repeated thoughtfully. Irving nodded, and Harry gave a harmless, friendly smile as he bent his head closer, almost confidingly. "Are you very certain she's all right, Irving?"

Irving opened his mouth to give a terse and demanding reply when he abruptly understood Harry's hinting gaze. Irving's horrified eyes turned to Hermione, as if asking if this Harry Potter was capable of such a thing. Before she could even shake her head disbelievingly, the reporter had disapparated, leaving the pair in relative peace.

"That was horrible, Harry," she murmured.

"I know. But he shouldn't mention my parents. Everybody knows that."

Hermione momentarily bit her tongue, hating that she was even in doubt. "Harry...you didn't...what did you–"

"I sent Mrs. Irving something," he happily answered as they neared the front door. He let Hermione stare at him in disgusted silence for a few minutes before clarifying. "A gift certificate to Fred and George's store. Nothing more, I swear."

"You're horrible," she sighed heavily, almost physically staggered with relief. "You're an insensitive, cruel boy," she told him as she made her way inside the house.

"What's he done?" Fred asked from the kitchen. "He hasn't yanked the baby out, has he? Because that's cheating, Harry, and you know it."

Harry made frantic waving motions with his hands as Hermione looked at Fred in puzzlement. "Cheating? What are you speaking of?"

George, who had been pouring two glasses of juice, turned in time to see Harry's negative, exaggerated gestures. "I believe Fred's speaking of cheating the natural fate of Nature. You can't rush babies, Harry. Let Hermione give birth on her own time...preferably two days from now."

"After two o'clock," Fred suggested brightly. "It's an extra quid if you have it after two o'clock."

Both George and Harry sent Fred exasperated glances. Hermione sat herself across from the idiotically smiling twin and studied him sternly.

"Is there a gambling pool on my baby, boys?"

George and Harry cringed at her steel edged tone.

Fred was ecstatic.

"Baby boys?" he cried joyously. "You're having twins! That's wonderful! I thought so! There's just far too much room in there," he gestured to her belly, "for just one infant."

"She means," George elaborated through gnashed teeth, "you sad excuse of a brother, baby-comma-boys."

"Oh." Fred sounded immensely disappointed. "Oh. And...to answer your question, no, of course not, stupid idea, and I'm offended you even suggested such a thing."

"You," Hermione said, raising her voice, "are betting on my baby coming!"

"Your baby's coming?" they heard Bill say as the eldest boy rushed into the kitchen. "Damn! Harry, you win!"

"Win the honour of being godfather, you mean," Harry added eagerly. "Yes, that's exactly what you mean, if she was to have the baby now. Isn't it, Bill?"

"Um..." Bill's eyes wandered slowly to all four faces. "Yes," he answered cautiously. "Absolutely."

"I cannot believe this! Here I am, anxious as anxiety can be, over the punctuality of my offspring, and you lot are betting on it like one of your Quidditch matches?"

"Not true," George protested, giving up on any secrecy as he handed Fred his glass. "Quidditch matches are far more reliable than that being in your stomach."

"Not helping, George. Really, really not helping," Harry mumbled.

"If it helps ease the indignity," Fred said nonchalantly, thanking his brother with a nod as he addressed Hermione, "you can have ten percent of the winner's holdings."

"You can't speak for everybody," Bill argued. "Percy's not here, and Ginny's taking a shower."

"What!"

"Oh, brilliant," Harry sighed as he sat beside Hermione. "Take everybody down, why don't you?"

"Well, if we're going to do that," George spoke up disinterestedly, "might as well mention that Wood thought you'd give birth two days before your due date. He seems to think the little monst–the little _bundle of joy_ would want to leave your wonderful womb early."

"I can't believe this," Hermione seethed, stealing Fred's plate of pie before the boy's fork could take a stab at it. Fred looked mournfully at his stolen snack, and even sniffled when Hermione took the fork from his hand. "I'm not a racing pony, you know."

George opened his mouth to comment, but Harry shook his head. "It's suicide, mate. Don't you dare make any comparison jokes, or she'll kill you."

"With what? All she has is a fork and a pie."

"I'm very inventive," Hermione threatened after she swallowed. She turned to Fred, who, in a panic, drained the contents of his glass in one gulp. He then began to choke violently, so much so that Bill moved to give him some hearty pats on the back.

"Wrong tube," he croaked with teary eyes.

"Did you do that?" George demanded from Hermione. "Did you make him do that, just for betting?"

"Don't be an imbecile," she snorted. Quite thirsty after finishing the slice in three bites, Hermione eyed his untouched glass with interest. "Are you going to finish that?"

George surrendered it immediately. "You'll find a way to kill me with it, I'm sure, if I don't give it up."

The five quieted immediately when Molly Weasley walked into the room, holding a new jumper in her hands. Well...it looked like a jumper. Upon closer inspection, the four boys and one girl saw it was a red short sleeved, knee length, knitted dress.

"I tried to show Ginny my newest project," Mrs. Weasley said with a shake of her head, "but she says it's not at all attractive."

"She's teasing," George immediately assured his mother. "Make her wear it on Christmas."

"I thought it was a nice colour," Molly lamented, and held the itchy material against Hermione's skin. "Don't you like it, dear?"

Hermione found Mrs. Weasley's latest endeavor incredibly ugly, and was very certain only Crookshanks would appreciate it, as a bed sheet.

"How sad that I'm not small enough to wear it," she said instead, dodging the question and focusing on the crumbs on her plate guiltily.

"Oh, don't worry," Bill smirked. "I'm sure mum will make a new one once little Bilius pops out."

"Ick, no," Hermione protested, before suddenly remembering Molly obviously liked the name, having christened her youngest son that. "I mean, ick, no, I'd want one much sooner."

Molly, with the rest of the boys, laughed, and patted Hermione's cheek lovingly. "You're adorable when you lie, dear."

Hermione did not like the term "adorable" at all, and only pouted as George handed her a second helping. Her should-have-been stormy expression only worsened matters, for then wet-haired Ginny entered, asking why Hermione was looking like a "cross, cute kitten."

"No reason," Harry dismissed the matter. "And why are you showering so late into the day?"

"Oy, Harry, let my little sister keep her naked business to herself," George scolded.

"Can we not mention 'naked business' in the kitchen, please?" Ginny asked, annoyed. "Any ways, Oliver and I were out flying today, and I was feeling extremely filthy–"

Bill straightened his posture. "I instantly forbid any activity with Oliver Wood that results in 'feeling extreme filthy.'"

"Thank you very much, Mr. No Authority Whatsoever–"

"I do have authority, silly chit. Mum fully supports me, don't you mum?"

"Bill, really, they had just fallen into some mud. No need to overreact."

Harry and Hermione watched the recent developments with silent interest. They had seen this relationship discussed between brothers, between brothers and sister, but never before had a brother and parent dissected the issue.

"No need to overreact?" Bill repeated with wide eyes. "Do you know how old he is, mum? _Thirty._ He's _thirty_ years _old. _That's more than a _decade_ older than Ginny. He was already looking up girls' skirts when Ginny was born."

"He's twenty three you stupid sod," Ginny argued. "And, while being a natural pervert was _your _gift as a child, Oliver is, was, and always had been a perfect gentleman."

That last exaggeration–and, to be sure, it was an exaggeration, for all had seen Oliver's less than honourable attitude when it came to Quidditch–drew a collective snort from the occupants.

"He's only five years older than her," Molly said, completely unaffected by Bill's arguments, and Harry, Fred, and George's disgruntled expressions. "Besides, your father has no problems with the relationship–"

"That's because he's gone all the time," Fred argued, sending Ginny a scowl. "If it weren't for her extremely wise elder brothers, Ginny here would be dating all sorts of idiots. Like...like...like Longbottom, or something."

"Hey," both Hermione and Ginny protested, both being quite fond of the boy.

"You think you two are qualified to judge who I date?" Ginny asked with narrowed eyes. The twins nodded complacently. "Yeah? You two seem very fond of Lee Jordan. Perhaps I should ask him out."

"Over my dead yet still handsome body!" George squawked, while Fred's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets.

"You can't ask boys out," Fred said sensibly. "Women don't do that. Next thing you'll know, you lot will be wanting the right to vote."

"Must brush up on history," Hermione chuckled quietly.

Ginny ignored them and looked to Bill. "And you haven't even introduced me to any of your friends."

"Because I want save them from your sharp tongue," he answered acidly. Quite annoyed with all the very good points his baby sister had made, Bill shook his head. "Besides, I don't approve of a young man who shirks his duties. Skiving off classes just to do filthy things with my sibling? Doesn't speak very highly of his morals, now, does it?"

"A very good argument," Harry couldn't help but pipe up.

Ginny nodded in agreement. "Yes. It would be...if Hogwarts hadn't already started their holidays!"

"Ouch," Harry muttered quietly. "That killed the good argument."

"Stop it, children," Molly said airily, and turned to Harry. "Set the table, will you, love? Arthur ought to be home in time for supper."

Harry nodded obediently, though he hated to do chores, having been bereft of them for quite some time now. Molly's happy tone and her "ought to be" meant that she was inwardly peeved, and that Arthur had _better_ be home in time for his health's sake.

"Don't forget Percy," Ginny said helpfully when Harry pulled out only nine plates.

"I'm not. The missing one is for Charlie."

"Charlie's only gone to see the primary school's play," Molly said in surprise. "Surely it won't' last so long."

"Er," Bill spoke up when Harry blushed and the twins attempted to smother their laughs. "Charlie has sort of assured us that...he won't be back tonight."

Very much like Mrs. Weasley, Hermione was somewhat confused. "But why? Are they going to dinner?"

Ginny opened her mouth to clarify her second oldest brother's romantic confidence when Harry hurriedly spoke. "Yes, yes, that's it. They're going to eat dinner afterwards, and it might possibly last the entire evening. He told me so."

Molly Weasley had not raised six children without learning a thing or two about such innocent lies. Still, because she did not want to let the conversation run coarse in the presence of ladies, she nodded with obvious skepticism and let Harry continue. Percy arrived in due time, with his father in tow.

"How did it go?" Bill asked his younger brother as Mr. Weasley endured his wife's bewilderingly scary glares.

"They said they'd be in touch."

Fred inhaled sharply as if in pain. "Sorry. Better luck next time, Perce."

"That doesn't mean I didn't get the job," Percy argued, and Billy nodded indulgently.

Then came a confusing rearrangement, for Hermione had settled herself in Fred's usual seat, and Mrs. Weasley insisted that she need not move, and Fred was very happy to sit elsewhere. Of course, the twin was, but it was matter of who was to sit before him. Hermione usually took this honour, for she was the only one safe from Fred's and George's little pranks, on account of her delicate condition. It was decided that Harry would sit across from Fred, but this caused another quandary, for then he was next to Ginny. While Ginny had no problem with the arrangement, Harry did, for Ginny–out of habit or perhaps out of residual spite–always ate things off his plate. He found this a cruel practice, for he rarely ate anything homemade and delicious, and, he would point out if he had enough courage, Ginny lived here, and she could have all the Molly-made food she want. Stealing from orphans was not very nice, even if the orphan had jilted you without warning.

So, after meaningful looks and suggestions from Hermione, Harry found himself situated between Bill and Mrs. Weasley, with Ginny on the other side of Bill. This satisfied everybody but Ginny, who had to endure dinner with Bill posing less-than-subtle questions to Harry, such as:

"How much money do you have saved, again, Harry? Really? That much? Did you hear that, Ginny? That'd be a lucky girl, wouldn't it, Ginny, who'd marry into that sort of secure life style. Much more reliable than...oh...let's say...a Quidditch player?"

Percy, who was sitting between his father and Hermione, pitied his little sister, and commented loudly, "Percivale was looking rather ill the other day."

"Frederic was looking rather disgusted with Percivale's use of third person," Fred muttered with a roll of his eyes.

Percy sent a pitying look to his younger brother, and George elbowed him in the ribs. "I meant," he clarified, "your pet rock."

"Oh yes," Ginny sighed, glad for the subject change. "It's dead."

"Ginny!" Arthur said. "After so much trouble of bringing it to life?"

"Well," Ginny said with a mournful frown. "That wasn't the trouble, it seemed. I had no idea how to feed it. Rocks don't have mouths, you know."

"Should we bury it?" Harry asked curiously. "And, if we do, would it be disrespectful to put a headstone on the grave? Wouldn't it be a bit like bragging? Like mocking the dead rock in the ground by setting a happy one right on top of it?"

Hermione's shoulders sagged under the fatuity of such a question, and, though Bill did not believe Harry's words to be equal to the ponderings of Einstein, he turned to Ginny to say:

"Wasn't that a thoughtful, insightful question?"

"My, my, Bill," Ginny replied dryly. "One would think you're falling in love with our house guest."

"Bad idea, Bill," George said confidingly. "She's knocked up with a bastard's child."

"I meant–oh, never mind," Ginny growled as the boys chuckled.

There was a great furor after supper. And Hermione had been thoroughly disgusted by the cause. So bored by the excitement was she that upstairs became the only sanctuary. Unfortunately, "upstairs" was extremely stuffy by a young pregnant woman's standards, and she had opened all windows and doors to have some fresh, wintry air circulating.

"It's just a stupid telly," she mumbled as she sat in Ron's empty room. Why was it that men became deaf statues when discussing anything of importance, and yet transformed into the most avid listeners when it came to electronics? Really, it wasn't as if life hanged in the balance of where the red wire went and how the blue wire crossed...

"Hurry up, Harry, the Weasley jewels are freezing off," she heard an impatient male say, outside and just below the window.

"That's rather presumptuous of you, isn't it, George? You're not the only one–"

"Harry, you didn't make me leave the telly installing fun just to discuss my balls, did you?"

Hermione reflected that she had never heard the boy ever speak so crudely, and was pleased to assume that George did utilize the gentleman's code of honour when in the presences of ladies, even if he would never claim so.

"I've been meaning to ask you something," Harry said uneasily. Hermione heard a pause, and then George's impatient noise. "Need your help."

"Just my help?"

"Yes."

"So no asking Fred, then."

"You shame Hermione with your deductive skills, George."

"This is about...that matter, is it?"

"Yes." Here, Harry cleared his throat, and Hermione could almost imagine her best friend looking around in an annoyingly fidgety way.

"I suppose," Harry began cautiously, "that I should have asked if you were still keen on the idea. I mean, now that you know the consequences–"

"I'm up for it," George interrupted carelessly, sounding strangely flat in his tone. "I'm not pleased with the consequences, of course. But still. It's best we have Ron either way. Alive, we can demolish his grave. Dead, we can put something in it."

Hermione knew for a fact that the twin wouldn't have spoken so plainly within her hearing range. It was such a definite, matter-of-fact way of speaking of her former beloved. Still, she supposed he was right.

Vaguely, she was aware that she was eavesdropping on her close friends. Thankfully, her conscience was not overly troubled by the minor detail.

"What are the specifics then? Catching that bastard will be a must. Any ideas?"

"I'm not a complete idiot, George. I do have a plan."

"Already?" Hermione frowned when she heard the Weasley respond with sincere disappointment. "I'm very good with strategy, you know."

"Sorry. You can come up with Plan B, if you'd like."

"I highly doubt it'll come to that. With the War and everything, you're probably a seasoned strategist by now."

There was beat, and Hermione imagined Harry shrugging nonchalantly, not overly proud of this compliment.

"Still," Harry insisted for he, like Hermione, had heard the twinge of regret in George's words. "A Plan B would be very wise."

"All right. Plan B, we Accio Draco." The pair laughed easily, and Hermione rolled her eyes. "How are you going to deal with the press?"

"What? Oh...oh yes, the press...hadn't really thought about–"

"Well, obviously, you need to solve that problem somehow," George interrupted easily. "We can't very well smuggle a fugitive into the country for selfish purposes and let that go public."

"I know," Harry snapped.

"So what do you plan to do?"

"That I do not know," he replied, sounding very defeated. George, on the other hand, sounded notably chirpier.

"No need to fret, Harry. Leave that to me." Hermione heard Harry's reluctant consent, and then George's, "So what do you need me for?"

"Brute force, really. Magical skills as well. Up for it?"

"Of course. But how will killing Malfoy expedite the plans?"

"Nobody said anything about killing, George. At best, we render him crippled. A legless man is still a breathing man, after all."

"Right. Limbs are dispensable."

"Should I be worried that you sound so bloodthirsty?"

"No. You should be worried that Dad will completely destroy that television you bought. How much did you say it was, again?"

Hermione sat very still on the bed, as if any movement would draw attention from the scheming boys as they walked casually back into the house. And they were scheming. Crippling Draco?

Was that really necessary? True, her entire being ached to see him again, but she did not want him to lose a limb for that wish to be fulfilled. Hermione sat back against the headboard, once more pondering the changes of Harry. Surely, he would not harm Draco if absolutely necessary. Surely, there would be no malicious injuries inflicted.

A small part of her wondered at her confidence in him. Dozens of teams from the Ministry had been scouring the planet for her love. Harry had been a part of that. And, despite the thorough search, nobody had been very successful.

But now, now when Harry claimed he had a plan and was willing to compromise George Weasley with his actions, Hermione had no doubt of it. When Harry spoke so confidently, whatever he planned would surely be completed.

It was within her power, of course, to stop it. Pregnant or not, Hermione was still a powerful witch. All it took was one potent potion, or one mighty spell...George would be swatted out of the way like a meddlesome pixie. Oh, she was not so deluded with grandeur that she believed her will and her intelligence would be enough to incapacitate Harry Potter. Inwardly, she believed the only ones to rival Harry's power were Dumbledore and Draco.

She was, however, dangerous to George. Without George, Harry's mysterious plotting would be a great deal more difficult. Hermione knew, however, that they would not be rendered impossible; simply delayed.

Hermione clasped her hands together and let them rest on her belly. Hopefully, the baby inside was not privy to her rather shameful thoughts. It would be very disheartening to learn that one's mother was willing to hurt a dear friend for the sake of preserving the safety of a lover.

God. Would she really do that? Would she really harm George–who belonged to a family who had already lost so much–to simply help Draco dodge responsibilities?

After all, Draco had given his word to Harry. Whatever means Harry and George were willing to use, it could be said that they were simply helping Malfoy keep his honour intact.

Besides, an insidious voice whispered in her mind, if you were to stop them...Ron can't come back. Don't you want Ron back?

Yes.

And no.

Yes, because she needed his strong, impenetrable embrace once more. She had been so cold, so battered and bled since she had left his arms. Just once, she wanted that safe, solid shelter once more.

And no, because she did not want to see the horror in his eyes once he learned of her recent past. She did not want that shield ripped away once he learned the truth.

To simply wait and see felt like a betrayal to Draco.

To interfere felt like a betrayal to everybody else.

Well. Shit. This was a lovely situation wasn't it?

"Your mother," she spoke to her swollen abdomen, "has a penchant for shitty situations."

The response was a soft kick. Not as forceful as the norm, but enough to make her imagine her child was responding, perhaps chastising her for her language.

"It would be ever so much easier to converse with you if you simply slid out. Come on, don't you want to? The sky is so lovely tonight. Don't want you to come out and see it?"

She was startled to hear foot steps outside the open door, and Harry's face pop into view. "Now, now, none of that. Can't promise your child the sky when it belongs to everybody as well. False advertising."

He grinned easily at her, and, abruptly, she felt sickened. How could he smile like that, without any qualms whatsoever? He must have known that any injury to Draco would hurt her. And yet, he was willing to do it, and willing to smile at her as if everything was fine.

"Whatever are you doing, sitting in the dark?" he asked as he entered. "I wouldn't even have known that you were here, if not for the insane muttering."

Hermione regretted ever giving him that carte blanche. She wondered that, if he were to hurt Draco or even kill him, would Harry still expect her to remain his best friend?

The cheerful smile on Harry's lips suddenly faded from sight when his bespectacled gaze turned away from her and onto the open window. Expression bland, he casually walked across the somewhat messy room to peer over the windowsill.

"Fresh footprints," he noticed curtly. She only nodded by way of response. There was no need to say what had just happened.

"Such behaviour is beneath you, Hermione," he said in a low, disappointed voice, making her bolt instantly to her feet.

"You have no right to condemn any sort of underhanded behaviour, Harry," she warned, her tone dangerously cold.

He shook his head, lips now twisting with a humourless smile. "I worry for you, Hermione," he told her seriously, crossing his arms and leaning against the sill. "How long will you let this continue?"

"What?" she demanded, so tense she thought she would break at any moment.

"This. All this. You don't even see, do you? How much he's influencing you? My god, I would have never thought that you would stoop so low–"

"Like you said, Harry," she spat, "you've never been in love. You could never understand. And I pity you, for with all your preaching and stubbornness, I don't believe you ever will."

"Don't turn this on me, Hermione. Sneaking around–"

"Ha! That's rich. And how did you know I was lying about the communication, hmm? Do you mean to tell me that there was no secret investigation involved?"

"Yes," he answered brusquely, stepping forward quickly. "That's exactly what I mean. Unlike you, I don't constantly suspect my friends of foul play. I don't investigate or eavesdrop on them while I doubt their character."

"Spare me, Harry–"

"The notes had fallen out," he bit out, in a timbre so low and forceful that it held all the intensity of a roar. "The letters had fallen out. The rose as well. Crookshanks had been playing with a book. I picked them up–"

"You didn't have to read them," she couldn't help but point out, feeling very low indeed.

Harry closed his eyes briefly, as if too much regret swam in them to be decent for view. "I know. I had simply assumed...because of the 'love' and all that...that they were love letters from Ron. A dried rose from Ron. I was...well, I was being very foolish."

Oh.

Oh dear.

Hermione knew exactly what Harry must have looked like. Slightly embarrassed to have stumbled across such material. Somewhat comforted to know that she kept tokens of Ron so close and cherished. Chillingly disturbed to learn that they were from his hidden enemy and reluctant ally.

Hermione was swaying forward before she even realised it. Her arms wrapped around Harry's neck just as his hands grasped Hermione's body to his. "Just as foolish as I am being right now?" she asked plaintively.

"Oh, a little less," he laughed.

Just like that. Just like that, and their explosive conversation had been diffused. Hermione wished she understood how on earth this friendship worked so well, with two intensely opinionated, highly emotional beings. Then she decided it was best not to question good things.

"So, next course of action?" Harry asked, holding her at arms length.

"I..." Hermione swallowed, and held his gaze. "I can't tell you what to do."

"But you won't help either," he added experimentally, awaiting her response. Hermione guessed that, whatever he had planned, it would be tremendously easier if she assisted them.

"No."

His shoulders slumped with defeat, as if expecting that the entire time. With a nod, he patted her head.

"Useless woman," he teased.

"If I'm so useless," she countered, ready to sink down into the mattress once more, "Why did you come up?"

Harry kept a grip on her hand, drawing her to her feet once more. "The telly...turns out I don't know muggle things as well as expected."

"Oh honestly," she huffed. "Just shunt that pregnant woman to the side unless your electronics need manipulating."

"Nobody shunted you, child. Stop the dramatics."

The dramatics continued into the night and well into the next day. Hermione had rescued the poor muggle device from irreparable dissection, but this was not the cause of theatrics. For, not even a full minute after the telly had been successfully installed, that the children began quibbling over control.

By the time Charlie arrived at eight thirty the next morning, quiet chaos had developed on the living room rug.

Molly Weasley, ever the wise woman, had left to run errands. Hermione, ever the cursedly curious woman, decided to refuse her invitation and stayed to watch how the new addition affected the household.

It was a decidedly negative effect.

"Hang on," Charlie shouted, wrapping his arms around Ginny's waist and lifting her into the air and off of George's struggling body. "I'm sure he's done something to warrant a choking, but at least wait until after Christmas."

"She changed the channel!"

"What?" Charlie asked, confused as he dumped his little sister down on the couch.

"The channel! She changed it! There was a beautiful woman on, and Ginny switched it to her damn game show!"

Charlie, of course, was apt to choose the more appealing program. "Change it back Ginny," he ordered without requesting an explanation from the girl.

The baby crossed her arms mutinously. "Stupid gits, all of you. It was a tooth paste commercial, George. It wasn't a show."

"Still! Go back! Maybe she'll show up again!"

In a very short time, most of the Weasley off spring found themselves stationary before the silver screen. Harry had gone to visit Remus Lupin for lunch, and Percy decided to read rather than let his mind turn to mush. Despite her less-than-friendly relationship with the boy, Hermione decided that she rather admired Percy's ability to ignore harmful curiosity.

At least the programs allowed her to knit without fear of teasing. Hermione was seated in a cushy chair, which offered the least desirable view of the screen, and watched the others with amusement. Bill, Fred, and Charlie all lolled on the floor with the most blank expressions on their face, while George and Ginny sat on the couch, alternating between snack-eating and remote control-stealing.

How happy they looked. The clicks of the needles slowed as she observed them. True, none wore any smiles, and once or twenty times Ginny would drop something down her brothers' collars...but how enviably happy they were.

Was it truly doing them a favour, then, to bring Ron back? They had adjusted, obviously, and they were doing quite well. Surely, it had taken hell and highwater to become so settled. It would pain Hermione tremendously if, with the best intentions, they had simply managed to "reopen a wound"–

"She sighed," she heard Fred whisper to Charlie.

"What? Sea side?"

"No, stupid," Bill remarked. "Fred said tea hide."

"She sighed," Fred repeated in a louder whisper. "I think she's in a fit again."

Hermione knew that their mother had warned them against "fits." She had overheard Mrs. Weasley advising them to try and understand that pregnant woman were prone to startling temperaments, and that it was best to embrace and cheer up such behavior should it arise.

Hermione was not quite certain if her foul moods and snappish replies were credited to her hormonal nightmare or because of her real-life nightmare. Either way, the Weasleys always had their own way with dealing with her. Namely, distraction.

"I've got a girl name for you," Ginny said brightly. "Emma."

"Wonderful," Hermione responded dryly. "Emma. Beautiful, simple–" Ginny beamed. "And the name of every other girl in the kingdom," she finished, causing her younger friend to frown a bit.

"Okay," Charlie remarked as they heard Harry stomping childishly to the front door. "I've got a boy name."

Bill began, "I thought we all agreed that 'Charles' was the name of a wanker."

All ignored the eldest as Harry opened the door, muttering quiet expletives.

"Daniel," Charlie presented with a smile. This suggestion was met with more enthusiasm than any other potential name, and the others smiled at such a sensible input. It could not be turned into an expletive, nor was it the name of anybody's current boyfriend...

When Harry finally put in an appearance, Hermione was pleased enough to include him.

"What do you think, Harry? Daniel, if it's a boy."

"Stupid name," Harry growled. "If he's a pansy, they'll call him Danielle."

Hermione sank back, disappointed by this revelation. It was true. Her own friends had done the same back in muggle school.

"What's the matter with you?" George demanded, turning in his seat to glower at him. They had just gotten Hermione to smile!

"He's fixed it!" Harry snapped, meeting all their eyes, expecting instant comprehension. "He's fixed it all!"

"Who?" Bill wondered.

"Fixed what?" Fred demanded.

"Remus! Number Twelve! Every god damned wall, every god damned door, every god damned nail is back in place!" Harry seethed. To Hermione's surprise, the boys were not overly concerned that the fruits of their toil was erased within a day. Clearly, it was not something they had taken very seriously either.

Potter was comically jerky, heading for the kitchen and then changing his mind last minute. He made the appearance of heading towards the stairs, and then decided against that as well. The Weasleys and Hermione watched with tolerant interest.

"How did he leave those things that were not divinely condemned?" Ginny asked perkily.

"Shut it, Ginny," Harry snapped, heedless of her surrounding brothers. "He said that...damn it, he said that..."

"He said, 'He said that'?" George asked, confused himself.

Harry whirled to the twin. "Don't be stupid. That presumptuous arse said..."

At this point, Harry's livid green gaze slid to Hermione for barely a moment, and the witch had a sinking feeling that Remus Lupin had repeated everything she had said before...except a tad more forcefully than Harry would have liked.

"Doesn't matter what he said," Harry spat. "He was wrong."

They sat in uncertain silence as the boy turned away once more and stomped up the stairs. They continued in wordless curiosity as the ceiling trembled with each furious step. It wasn't until that the bruit ceased that the ginger haired family continued their normal business.

Hermione wasn't sure if she was supposed to follow. Obviously, it was up to Harry's friends to make sure he was mentally and physically well. But, on the other hand, this was Harry. There were simply times when he needed to be alone. Besides, underneath the fussiness, Harry probably knew that their professor was right.

"Daniel's out then?" Ginny commented lightly.

"'Fraid so," Hermione answered, disappointed.

"Damn, she's frowning again," Bill noticed, and not very quietly either. Honestly, Hermione thought, rolling her eyes, it was as if getting knocked up had knocked her ears off.

"Hermione," George began loudly and cheerfully, "Have you seen Bill's impression of Professor Kettleburn?"

"I'm sorry?" she asked politely, pretending, for their sake, to have not heard them.

Bill arose from his seat, and moved to stand before Hermione with a smile.

"Professor Kettleburn, my professor of Magical Creatures and such. I remember him when he had both legs."

"And did he give a unique impression, this professor?"

"Well..." Bill turned to his siblings, who smiled back expectantly. Then the eldest Weasley began the strangest set of movements Hermione had ever seen, Prewett included. He tucked his right arm into his shirt, so that the sleeve flapped about uselessly. Bill then bent his left leg up and behind his other leg. And, before Hermione's amazed eyes, he began jerking and twitching around in the most idiotic way, with hops and twists occasionally thrown in.

"Now class," he announced in a loud, nasal tone, "Do not be afraid. These animals are perfectly safe–"

"Stop that right now!" Hermione thundered, clumsily standing. "What a horrible thing to do! He was your professor, sacrificing more than any other professor should have, and then you...you... What a horrible thing, Bill!"

"Yes," Fred piped up with an offended air, despite the fact that he had been laughing along with his family, "terrible idea! Only cruel people would find such mimicry amusing–"

"Cruel and idiotic," Bill snapped back, blushing and assuming all previous limbs. "You begged for me to do it last week!"

"Lee had never seen it," George reminded him mildly, as if it were a reasonable argument.

Bill threw his hands to the air, apparently giving up on his family for the moment. He then announced he would see to Harry, and was met by dull responses.

By this time, Hermione had huffily pushed past them and to the kitchen. It was time for a snack. Yes. Something salty would help her calm down and forget Bill's horribly disrespectful homage–

Her feet slowed as she past the couch.

Odd. Oh well. Her body had been feeling odd for nine months now, so–

Hermione came to a stand still just as she entered the kitchen.

Oh dear. That was a bit more than odd.

"Damn," Hermione said, trying to peer down to her lap, but was unable to with her abdomen's current, protruding condition.

It would not be protruding for very long.

"I hope that does not stain."

She wondered why she wasn't panicking. Women verily lost all common sense when this occurred. But not Hermione. She stood and shifted from foot to foot, waiting for sweaty palms, racing hearts, and pains.

None came.

This had to be wrong. Very baffled, Hermione turned slowly–surely jiggling was not the best course of action at the moment–and carefully tip toed back to the room, standing just behind the couch.

"Yes, Hermione?" George asked, eyes never leaving the screen.

"Ah..." How to say this, exactly, without sounding cliché? The baby gave a small bump, obviously not caring for originality. With a shrug, Hermione said, "My water's broken."

Charlie, also never wavering his attention from the television, reached for Fred's glass of pumpkin juice and blindly reached behind him to hand it to Hermione.

"Hey," Fred spoke up, voice bizarrely monotone. "That was mine."

Oh god. There it was. There was that racing heart, and there were those sweaty palms. Hermione was frightened, and understandably so. Here she was, ready to bring forth a miracle of life, and the only people to help her was this moronic brood. She needed Mrs. Weasley, but who knew when that professional mother would return...

Ginny. Yes. Ginny was infinitely smarter–

"Ginny," she began, voice trembling nervously.

She must have heard the worry in Hermione's tone, for she quickly leaned forward to hit Fred's head. "Brute. She's pregnant." And, with that, she snatched the glass from Charlie's hand and cheerfully offered it to her friend.

She was going to die. Ginny was her last hope. Her baby wouldn't ever come out, knowing that absolute imbeciles awaited it...Good god, she hadn't even a name for it! What infant would want to enter a world with no name and a thoughtless mother and imbecilic friends–

Hermione let out a small whimper, and Charlie shot to his feet. "All right!" he exclaimed, panicked. "Water it is! Do you want ice?"

The much needed help came in the form of loud, sullen steps coming down the stairs. Harry appeared, with a pushy Bill behind him. He paused in confusion however, once he sighted Hermione's disquieted expression.

Charlie also noticed the new arrival. "Harry! Go get Hermione's water! She's in need of it."

Harry shook his head, and also shook off Bill's nudge. He appeared to be studying Hermione with an even greater intensity, taking another step.

"Harry–"

"Oh you bloody morons!" Harry declared. They had thought he was angry before. They had thought wrongly.

Swiftly, he stepped forward, upsetting glasses and snacks as he reached her. "She's having the baby!"

And for one, strangely funny moment, everything had stilled. Fred and Charlie froze as they righted their drinks. George became immobilized half way between sitting and standing. Ginny's mouth hung open like a surprised statue.

Hermione knew it was inappropriate, and she knew that it would only make the others worry...but she couldn't help it. She clasped her hands to her mouth and giggled. They all looked like gaping fish. It reminded her of Harry's favourite joke, with the fish and the bartender...

But before she could let out another, innocent chuckle, Hermione fell down upon a bed in a surprised whoosh.

"How did I–Harry! I cannot believe you used magic on me when I'm–"

"In labour?" he finished, nodding, eyes wide with impatience. He was a strange version of Molly Weasley when he placed his hands on his hips, observing the supine Hermione in a critical manner. His green eyes lit anew and he snapped his fingers as the irritating problem revealed itself. "Must change the sheets! Damn good timing, Hermione, I know Percy just washed his..."

And before Hermione could protest once more, she was levitated and then brought down again, this time on dubiously pink, yet undoubtedly clean bed sheets. "Please stop it, Harry. All this magic will undoubtedly interfere with the birthing."

"Call me crazy, but I think that's exactly when any female needs magic."

"Crazy," she laughed again, allowing him to set up pillows behind her. Before Harry could declare her temporarily mad, they heard rushed footsteps up the stairs and approaching the door.

"Harry," Ginny panted. "Honestly. Give some warning."

"So sorry," he retorted. "I was worried that if she stayed there any longer, you would have plied her with some bread rolls."

"Would you like some, Hermione?" Fred asked helpfully.

"I'd like your mother, please," she requested politely.

"Funny coincidence," George exclaimed. "I like her as well–"

"George!" Ginny snapped. "This is no time for jokes!"

"Who's joking?" Fred said defensively. "We both like our mother very much, you little ingrate–"

"God damn it!" Harry snarled. "Either you two do something helpful, or you get out this instant!"

Fred leaned forward and, with such customary idiocy that Hermione only shook her head indulgently, addressed her stomach once more.

"Wait till tomorrow! I'll split the winnings with you!"

"Out," they suddenly heard an authoritative woman command in the hall. "Everybody out."

"Hang on," Fred called out to his mother, distinctly annoyed. "Hermione'll need a hand–"

"Everybody out except Hermione, clearly," Harry exclaimed, appearing ready to burst. His fingers fidgeted more than usual, as if itching to strike somebody. Hermione guessed, distractedly, that this was merely an aftereffect of today's conversation with Lupin.

Thank heavens for Molly Weasley, Hermione reflected happily, as the others were ushered out. Bill and Charlie had not rushed upstairs and to Ron's room for they had wisely thought to search for their mother. Bill had been more successful, and they heard Fred warning his older brother against using the Kettleburn impression in the presence of pregnant ladies ever again.

Harry and the rest of the family marched back down stairs in disappointment. It would have been exciting to share the experience with Hermione, Harry reflected, but he supposed Ron's tiny little room would not have held all.

"Where's Charlie?" Ginny asked.

"He went out looking for mum," Bill answered, switching off the television for the first time in hours. "I sent Pig to tell him to go and inform dad."

All heads turned at the sound of descending foot steps, and a collective sigh of disappointment was heard when Percy arrived.

He acknowledged the insult with knitted brows. "What's with mum?"

"Hermione's in labour," Harry replied curtly, moving to sit next to Ginny on the couch. "Obviously, your mother's the most qualified to deal with this."

"She's locked the door in Ron's room," Percy said, seeming, at least to Harry, overly concerned with the fact. The others watched with interest as the third eldest sat in Hermione's recently vacated chair.

"Of course," Ginny said after a moment's contemplation. "She's probably helping Hermione change into something more appropriate."

"Is there a dress code for birthing?" Bill asked, amused.

Percy let out an irked noise. "Don't you get it?" His eyes slid over his family members', unintentionally ignoring Harry. "This is the first time mum's been in Ron's room since..."

There was no need to finish. They all understood how long it had been. Two years. Two years since Mrs. Weasley had ever taken a step past that door frame.

Harry shifted in his seat uneasily, not for the first time feeling like an intruder. This was family business, something he had never really known how to handle. A small part of him was thankful for Remus Lupin's high handed interference. It was probably time to move out soon.

The door opened, so unexpected in the somber stillness that a few jumped at the noise.

"I told Dad to come home, but they can't spare him," Charlie began carelessly and stopped at their expressions. He studied each face with bewilderment. "What? Don't tell me I missed it already?"

"Don't be silly, Charlie," Ginny chided, "it takes much longer than a few minutes."

"Oh yeah," George agreed. "I say an hour, tops."

Within one hour, there was no bundle of screaming joy to be heard. There was, however, a new addition to the awaiting house hold.

"Hullo," Arthur Weasley called out, tumbling out of the fireplace. "What's all the excitement?"

Harry turned to Charlie. "You didn't tell him why to come home?"

"Knew I forgot to mention something..."

"Oh daddy," Ginny said excitedly, jumping to her feet. "Hermione's gone into labour! She's having little Ginny today!"

"Really?"

"No dad, we're joking."

Arthur only smiled at Bill's sarcasm. "I win, then, don't I?"

His sons, daughter, and family friend only stared at him in puzzlement until, one by one, comprehension peppered their features.

"Damn!" the youths exclaimed, in a rare fit of unison.

"How much is it now?" Arthur asked with mild interest, setting down his brief case. When he stood once more, however, he was faced with, not disappointed fellow gamblers, but one irate wife.

Molly stood at the bottom of the stairs, hands on her hips in one of the most frightening stance in the history of womanhood. Arthur gulped visibly, finished shedding his winter wear, and stepped around the children in what he hoped to be a pleased and unconcerned manner.

"Molly! How is–"

"Arthur! Have you been betting on Hermione's baby?"

How very strange, Harry thought, watching amusedly, much like the others. Mr. Weasley was no where near the fire, but a fine sheen of sweat sat upon his brow any way. "Er...no...not exactly...more like...Hermione's baby's schedule."

Harry was quite certain he had never seen Molly turn quite so red, and guessed this was because she had not wanted to scare him away from Ginny. Pitying Mr. Weasley very much, Harry stood and then cleared his throat.

"Can we go see her, please, ma'am?"

His strangely courteous tone–for Harry, very comfortable with the family, had grown so deplorably cheeky lately–snapped Molly out of the irate trance she had worked herself into. With a smile that was so sudden it made the others stepped back a bit, Molly nodded. "Yes, two at a time please. I don't want her over excited."

"I fail to see how that is possible," Charlie muttered as, by silent understanding, Harry and Ginny made their way upstairs.

Harry hadn't known what he was expecting. He had never seen a woman-in-labour up close before. In television programs and movies, they were usually a bit sweaty, a tiny bit insane, and generally cursing the world.

"Can't you do anything right?" he asked, annoyed, as he strolled in the room. Ginny trailed after him, and he felt a sharp slap to his arse. Ouch. Little girl was very lucky that he did not report to her mother just what kind of food-stealing, bum-spanking daughter she was.

"That's not very nice to say to her in a moment like this," Ginny reprimanded, grabbing a chair from the dusty desk to sit bedside. Harry, a person of lesser manners, sat on the bed itself.

"A moment like what?" he wanted to know. Harry looked down his nose at his friend, who was playing with her hair ends innocently. "Hermione, you're not even acting pregnant! Where is the swearing, the shouting, the...the I'm-about-to-give-birth-ness? At least act like your somewhat discomforted!"

"Oh, I am, believe you me. It's not every day I sit around without my knickers on, my friends coming to and fro while I lay on my back like a helpless turtle."

"Okay, now I'm somewhat discomforted," Harry grimaced, scooting farther away from Hermione's bent legs and closer to her head.

"So, how long, do you think?" Ginny asked, excited. "How long does mother say?"

"She says...well I don't know really. She was ever so helpful when she told me how long it took to birth you."

Both Harry and Ginny's eyes lighted anew at this hint. "How long?" Harry asked.

"Ten hours," Hermione sighed miserably, finished her braid, and laid back against the pillows. "I don't think I want it that long."

"Ten hours!" Ginny repeated, eyes wide. "After six before me? That's impossible! Her birth canal should have shot me out like a–"

"Bad enough you're speaking of your mother's birth canal," Harry cut in, hand up to ward off further description, "Comparing it to something common will surely taint my everyday thoughts."

"True," Ginny decided after Hermione giggled. "Anything you need, dear?"

Harry started at such a familiar phrase, green eyes alighting to Ginny across Hermione's torso. How very much like Molly she sounded. How very sure, how very comforting she sounded. Ginny absently snagged and then released his gaze as Hermione pondered her answer.

How lucky Oliver Wood was.

Harry shook his head, and focused on the present. All was done, and he wasn't so changed that he was willing to steal a girl away from his old friend.

Then he snorted. What a confident idiot he was. There was no certainty that Ginny would be willingly convinced–

"Well, a baby magnet would be extremely helpful..." Hermione was saying.

"How lovely for you," Ginny laughed. "I just happen to have one in my back pocket."

"You don't have back pockets," Harry pointed out smartly.

"Stop checking out my bum, Harry," Ginny teased.

"Well," Hermione continued cheerily–so cheerily, in fact, Harry suspected she wasn't in labour at all, the attention-greedy little witch–"if that not cannot be arranged, I would like Poppy to come."

Harry scratched his head apprehensively. "If I manage to invent a baby magnet, can we forget that second option?"

"Harry, really–"

"That isn't very nice–"

"Isn't it breaking some sort of rule?" he asked, interrupting the protesting pair. "I mean, a muggle at the Burrow? Won't that set off some sort of self-destruction mode, or something?"

"Hard to believe I dated you for so long," Ginny sighed with pity. Then, with a volume that both frightened and impressed her two friends, she called for the twins.

"Ooh, yes, little Frederic's here!" one twin said, rubbing his hands together maniacally as he entered. George followed closely behind, obviously not expecting an infant so soon, and easily tripped Fred from behind to walk ahead.

"What is it, you little brat?" George asked Ginny flippantly after a cursory look to Hermione. He wouldn't, Hermione noticed with some glee, meet her eyes. Good old George. Decent enough to feel somewhat guilty, at least.

"You know Poppy Porpington's address, do you not?" George nodded, as did Fred after he picked himself off the floor. "Go and fetch her, please."

"And then what? Harry said we can't kill her. Or any muggles at all, come to think of it..."

"Bring her here," Hermione finished happily. "Please? There's no rule about muggles at the Burrow, now, is there? You're mother won't mind, very much?"

"Nonsense," George immediately replied, apparently wishing to comfort her as much as possible. "I'll go."

Contrary to popular belief, the pair were not joined at the hip, and Fred decided it was a task simple enough for one young man. After George had left–with a ridiculous bow–he looked around the room with wide eyes.

"Oh dear," he breathed, "three visitors! Mum said two! We're all going to explode!"

Much to everybody's relief, nobody exploded, though, by the third hour of labour, Hermione would have liked to have something that monumental to take place. Approximately three hours and twenty seven minutes after her water broke, a knock cautiously sounded into the room.

By this time, that "two person" rule was glaringly ignored, for Bill, Charlie, Fred, and Harry were sitting on, around, or at the foot of the bed when Ginny opened the door.

"The contractions have been twenty minutes apart but it's been seventeen minutes since the last one..." Hermione had been telling a rather confused Charlie when she saw who was nervously standing at the door. She sat up as best she could, smiling so happily that, once again, more than one male believed this "water breaking" business to be a complete false alarm.

"Poppy!" she cried, and then added, with widened eyes, "And mini Poppies!"

Clutching tightly to their mother's heavy coat was Nadine, Henrietta, and Julia Porpington. They were tiny for their age, and all sporting hair cuts of various lengths, presumably for the purpose of identification. A strawberry blonde Poppy awkwardly made her way into the room, her progress handicapped by her offspring's timidity.

"Sorry it took so long," George apologised from behind the burdened mother. "She couldn't find a woman to sit on her babies."

Fred was watching the Porpingtons with avid interest. "Hello there," he said amiably to the ginger haired triplets. He then jerked his head to Bill's direction. "Shame on you, Bill! Populating London without informing us!"

It was Charlie who hit his younger brother, on behalf of the annoyed Hermione and confused Poppy.

"Let go, girls," she encouraged softly, ineffectually patting their tiny fists. Then, upon meeting no success, she shrugged helplessly. "They're not usually this scared. Ask Harry, he knows."

"It's true," Harry noted, confused, waving to Nadine, whose hair was shoulder length. "Usually, they're the reason ADHD had been discovered."

"It was his driving!" Julia, whose hair was cut to a short, stylish bob, suddenly said. "He was going too fast!"

"Can I help it if they're used to the milk truck's speed?" George sighed, and moved to sit on the bed. Without preamble, he quickly scooped Henrietta on his way, and propped the bewildered girl on his knee.

"I can't sit here," Henri protested, squirming despite her mother's assurances.

"Why not?" George wanted to know. "I wager you and I are related some how."

"Mum said not to touch you."

"Adults, or men in general? Because, you know, child, George doesn't qualify as either," Charlie argued with a laugh.

"I meant," Poppy corrected, shooing Harry out of a chair and placing her two daughters in his place, "don't touch anything they offer you."

"Okay, that does make sense," Bill agreed. Nadine and Julia had been considerably calmer once they were seated next to someone of familiarity, while Harry was becoming very nervous at the thought of this vulnerable nearness.

Poppy smiled warmly as she sat on the bed. "How's it going then?"

"Very slowly," Hermione sighed. "Though, I must say, not very much pain."

"Speak for yourself!" Ginny protested, showing squeezed and bruised hands.

"I learn to channel the discomfort," Hermione told her proudly, and Poppy laughed. Mrs. Weasley then entered, and Hermione showed her the progress, which, ever the studious witch, she had been logging on a piece of parchment. The matriarch was very surprised to see not only the muggle, but the muggle's children, all of whom were the most well-behaved offspring to have entered the Weasley residence.

The girls smiled prettily at this compliment, and maintained their clasped hands, crossed ankles, and sweet smiles until Mrs. Weasley left to check on Mr. Weasley and Percy's progress with supper.

"I like her!" Nadine declared.

"Me too!" Julia and Henri cried, and, consequently quibbled of the matters of "jinx."

"You should," George told them. "She's most likely your grandmother."

"Please stop fabricating their family tree," Poppy requested, slightly irked.

"Ouch!" Harry suddenly yelped, and the others looked towards him in surprise. The wizard was clutching his ankle, apparently injured.

"What?" Hermione asked. At least something interesting was happening, even if it wasn't happening to her.

"I dunno," Harry muttered darkly, glaring at Nadine and Julia, who only stared back blankly. "But I believe they may be responsible."

"Harry," Charlie began, "don't blame the children for your own habit of getting hurt–"

Then he was interrupted when Fred, who had been sitting at George's feet, let out an unmentionable word, clutching his head, and scowling at the girl on his brother's lap.

"Fred! Really!" Ginny scolded. "Not in front of the children!"

"Please," Hermione scoffed, "I'm sure they've heard worse from Poppy."

"I think," Ginny said delicately, "that this may not be the best room for the children. I mean, obviously, we've made an exception for Fred, George, and Harry but..."

"Isn't she a funny child?" Harry asked the room. "Go on then, Ginny, and show the girls your doll collection."

Ginny narrowed her eyes at the mention of these nonexistent toys, "Oh I would, Harry, but you have yet to return the dresses."

"Ooh," Nadine breathed. "Naked dolls. Shame on you."

Hermione did not like the thought of entering her fourth hour of labour with such childish debates in the room. Though she did hate the idea of sacrificing her loved ones..."Harry, darling?"

The near crippled boy was regarding the triplets and the triplets' mother with mounting suspicion. "Yes?" he murmured distractedly.

"Please take Crookshanks to the sitting room."

"I highly doubt the animal will appreciate the telly," Bill murmured wisely.

"Oh," Fred suddenly spoke up. "I know! Children love television! Let's just–"

Julia spoke up forlornly. "Mum doesn't like us watching too much tv."

"She says it will melt our brains," Henri added sadly.

"And then we'll end up like Uncle Harry," Nadine finished.

"_What?_"

"Never you mind," Poppy chuckled. "But I understand, Hermione. Girls? Would you like to play with Hermione's cat?"

As the girls expressed their exuberance at the idea, Ginny leaned close to Hermione's ear. "Are you sure Crookshanks will survive?"

"He's a durable animal," she assured her as Harry herded the bouncy, happy girls out the door. Fred and George followed, apparently finding muggle children much more interesting than a witch in labour.

After Hermione experienced her belated contraction but before Charlie left to fetch some ice for Ginny's hand, they heard George loudly exclaim, "Look what Bill's gone and done! You're a grandfather, dad!"

Between the fourth and sixth hour, the interval between the contractions slimmed to a painful five minutes, and many of the original occupants had been shoved out. Six hours and forty two minutes into the endeavor found only Poppy, Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley in the room.

"How long did it take you, Poppy?" Hermione breathlessly asked her friend. By now, she had Ginny's hand clutched in her right fist and Poppy's fingers squeezed tightly in her left one.

"Oh..." Poppy muttered, wincing as Hermione felt another wave of pain crash upon her. "You're going to hate me, Mione."

"How long?"

Now only two minutes sat between each excruciating bout of hazy pain, and Hermione wondered aloud if St. Mungo's could send over a few drugs.

"Now, now," Molly Weasley from the foot of the bed. "I had seven children without any–"

"But you're a professional," Hermione argued, panting. "I'm just an amateur."

"Merlin," Ginny giggled. "What does that make me?"

All laughter subsided when the birthing pains arrived once more, and Ginny, an effort to distract herself from the inevitable crushing of her hand, addressed Poppy. "How long, did you say, Poppy?"

"I didn't," Poppy replied through gritted teeth. For one brief and glorious moment, Hermione's grips relaxed, and Ms. Porpington was able to speak clearly. "An hour and a half."

"You're right," Hermione agreed as Ginny wiped the sweat from her brow. "I do hate you."

All conversation halted when it came time to push. To Ginny, the specifics of this command was a bit of a mystery to her. But to Poppy, Mrs. Weasley, and especially to Hermione, this command became the most difficult action to achieve. For to Hermione, it felt as if that no matter how hard she pushed, no matter how much her body exerted itself to the point of near collapse, it was never enough. Molly continued to prompt her at the right times, and after each attempt, Hermione felt as if another could not be produced. Her body ached with a burning fatigue, and, more than anything, she just wanted the next push to be the last push, just so she could stop using energy she did not possess.

"Come on, Hermione," Poppy whispered, "just a bit more."

"I can't," Hermione protested in a broken voice, "I can't any more."

They were lovely, these girls. They were the best nurses any woman could ever hope for when giving birth. And who else but the pro to be helping her child into the world?

But, god, did she need the father. She needed somebody who cared for the child as much as she did. She needed somebody whose heart froze with every pain, every twinge, every shuddering breath. She needed somebody to share this fear, this fear as a parent to be. She needed a man who became sick at the thought of forcing her to continue in such misery, but became even sicker at the thought of allowing her to quit, for the sake of the child. She needed the father, a real father, who trusted that any hardship Hermione endured would be worth hearing that first, infant cry.

Poppy, Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley were wonderful, she knew that. But they were not what she wanted at her side. And, sadly, neither was Draco.

Her eyes squeezed shut tightly, tears seeping out before she could help it. She didn't want to. She couldn't. Everything in her had been put forth for the earlier pushes. There was nothing left in her. There was nothing left to drive her. Hermione wanted her child to see the world, the night sky, yes, she did, she truly wanted to...

"Push."

_Mother, mother, _she wept internally._ Mother help. It hurts so much, it hurts so so much. I don't know how you did it, mum, but I can't. It hurts too much, mum, and you're not here to help me._

"Push..."

_Oh dad, oh dad. How you would hate this. You used to say I was never meant for pain. And you're right, god, you're right, because I just can't take this any more, dad, please help, because I just can't take this..._

"Push..."

_Damn you Draco, god damn you. Damn you for leaving me, damn you for giving me this pain, damn you for leaving me alone to endure it, and god damn you, god fucking damn you for making me cry and having only these tears as company..._

"_Push!_"

But she couldn't find it any more. She couldn't find the strength to continue.

"I can't," she said softly, disappointment soaking her words.

_Silly Hermione_, she heard somebody whisper. _Of course you can_.

Who was that? Hermione's eyes snapped open, looking around the cluttered room in alarm. Not Draco, no, surely not...at least, Hermione was mostly certain it wasn't. Remus had taught her well. Though, perhaps, the toll of pregnancy had weakened her barrier...

She was going to kill him. Teasing her, goading her, acting as if he knew how much it pained her. As if he had any bloody idea how tormenting and unrelenting this was. Had he sat by her side, holding her hand? Had he endured hour after hour of lonely agony? Well, he would, if Hermione had anything to do about it. She was going to make him suffer just as she suffered, and then she'd kill him...

_But before you get to all of that_, an amused voice told her, _you're going to have to finish what you've started here._

It didn't _feel _like Draco. Of course, the last time she had felt in her mind, he had been a cocky, arrogant, law defying bastard. Perhaps the months of hiding and extreme temperatures had hammered his presence into something more tolerable.

Ginny and Poppy had foolishly believed they had endured the pinnacle of pain as Hermione's bedside nurses. Then their dear friend proceeded to give "pain" a whole new definition as Hermione, with a determination inexplicably inspired and irrevocably ferocious, pushed and pushed and _pushed_...

"Oh, Hermione," Mrs. Weasley exhaled with relief, tears or sweat or both running down her own face. "It's a boy."

xoxox

**a midget in glasses is being born."**

**Duh**


	19. Windy Weather

**Izod**: hmm, wasn't sure if that was a lower case "L" or an upper case "I." Any who, thank you for the review! I'm sure you're not the only one who'd like to see what goes on there. Yes, I will continue, even if I teeter into mediocrity. :0)

**paul is dead**: heya! Glad to know that the letters made you interested, and not sleepy. Normally I hate that format, so it was a very hypocritical decision of mine! You shouldn't feel bad for not reviewing sooner, because then I'd have to feel bad for not updating sooner, and then there's just too many bad feelings floating around. Bad for the noosphere.

It's a very strong possibility that whatever Harry's doing, it's gonna be both weird and important. He is Harry, after all. What a freak. :0)

**insipid paragon**: Okay, now, lots of deep breaths. Deep breaths are good. They help with a funny thing called respiration. And now that we're done with exercising our lungs, let me just ! You've given me my first marriage proposal ever! I would have preferred my first marriage proposal to come from a boyfriend or a wizard or something, but a nice reviewer is just as satisfying. Now here comes the sad news; No, I cannot marry you, on account of...well, not knowing you...and no, you cannot have the twins, because I'd like to keep them for myself, thank you very much. Selfish of me, isn't it? Aren't you glad I refused, and saved you from a bitchy wife:0) Any who, I don't know if it is sacrilege to prefer my version of the twins to Her version of the twins. Still, it's best not to mention that in the odd chance of meeting Her! I rather like their protective-ness as well. You just don't see enough of it in the movies, how much the Weasleys have accepted Harry and Hermione into their family. I was a little bit peeved (okay, a LOT peeved, but I'm trying to let go of the little things) when the twins merely stood by the first time Draco called Hermione a mud blood. I mean, I loved their reaction in the book so much I actually cheered aloud when I read it.

Don't take any more last deep breaths! Take a lot more!

Any ways, I'm glad you enjoyed it so much. Your review was very nice and very funny, and I hope I shan't disappoint you with my later ramblings!

**loverlydaisy520:** hello again back at ya!

All righty loverlydaisy, federal law says that mind-reading is prohibited. That in mind, I shall have to report you, unless you have something wonderful and Harry Potter-related with which to bribe me. No? Well, then, don't drop the soap.

On a more serious note, actually, yes, I contemplated writing that scene, but then I realized I had no where to put it, and that, in my mind, I'm so far removed from the events of the castle that it would be very difficult to get back into that atmosphere again. But, if you like the idea so much, you should write it. I don't believe I'm very skilled with out takes and epiphanies, and, since you seem to be fond of both, I see no reason why you can't. Unless, of course, you're like me, and allow obstacles like "putting in an effort" get you down...thus explaining the tardiness of this chapter... :0)

I love the Weasleys too! How I wish they were a real family so I can go and stalk them...I meant admire, not stalk. Nobody mentioned stalking...

Aw, thanks! And you're the only one, I think to have mentioned the Harry/Ginny moment. I didn't think it was very realistic to have Harry cut off his feelings just like that. I mean, yes, he might be over her, but I think he'd still miss the security that she represents. Without Ron, Ginny was his only link to the only family he's ever known. Nostalgia, of course, would be unavoidable.

Thanks again for reviewing twice!

**fizzie-lizzie**: Hiya,

You worship fluffy ducks? Oh wow. Sunday services must be ever so fun.

Any who...Franz Ferdinand.

Yes, you may be able to beat me on writing 40 pages and then a sentence. But, I would write 40 pages and then draw a lovely, worshiping picture. And then I'd mail it to them. And ignore the restraining order.

Just kidding! About the restraining order part, not about anything else.

Oh god, have you seen them perform! I could kill you I'm so jealous! Oops, there I go again, being all creepy like. I would literally spend my life savings–okay, it's not much, but means a whole lot–to just spend five minutes in the same room with them.

I've recently been on mugglenet, where they're commenting on whether or not Franz Ferdinand will perform in the next movie, or contribute to the soundtrack. I nearly ground my teeth into dental powder; that's how frustrated I was with some of the stupid comments. You're right, people just don't get the music. They say Franz Ferdinand isn't a good band, that they have no credibility, blah, blah, blah...I'd pity them for their stupidity if I didn't hate them so much!

My favorite song of theirs is Michael–even though it completely disturbs my homophobic friends and family. The way Alex sings, "So sexy...I'm sexy..." I usually have to restrain myself from screaming, "Hell yes you are!" (Which is silly, because he's singing to Michael, not a silly little asian girl, but I can dream, can't I?) Is it very bad of me to lie on their official site? I wanted to be on the email list, and there wasn't a choice for the usa, so I just chose Canada, because I figured it was close enough. Oh well. All in the name of Franz Ferdinand!

Oops! I simply forget I'm responding to a review of a story. All righty, I guess I'll have to refer to the writing at some point...just not now.

Actually, I think you missed the bitter bio, in which I stated why helping Mary Sue Writers is impossible, no matter how nice and sympathetic you are. And then I stated baldly who had plagiarized me, and who dared to ask me to review their story and then hated me for doing so truthfully. I've lightened up since then–I think Christmas put me in a better mood–and changed it to that.

I rather like your version of reading. Oh and thank so much by the way (I hope you can feel my sarcasm). You've completely ruined the word "analogy" for me. I can't take anything seriously now that I've got "anal logic" stuck in my head. Wonderful. It really reminds me of my favorite quote in the whole wide world: "Half of analysis is anal."

And now, fizzie-lizzie...sssh!

You cannot, cannot, CANNOT mention the source of Porpington again! Or I will...you know...well, think of the worst thing I can do (not much, pathetically) and I will do it! Ha! Adequately threatened? I hope so, because I can't think of anything else!

And, before you wonder why I had put that name, it's because I've always liked that character, and I don't think he gets enough attention. So, there will be a future scene with both Poppy and Poppy's company and...him...as long as I remember to write it. I tend to forget these things.

Oh god, how funny it would be to have a Ronald Granger! Everybody always expects a Hermione Weasley in stories, right? It's very tempting...but I don't think Hermione would be that spiteful. Well, I'm sure she can be, as illustrated by that Rita Skeeter incident, but I don't think she'd show spite so soon after labor!

Actually, Hermione does name the baby after Draco. That Bastard-aco Granger. Has a nice ring to it, don't it?

I'm worried about the Ron Resurrection as well. I don't want it to be, as you've said, "too perfect." Oh well, I'll find a way, or die trying.

Oh yay! Another conversion! I get the free pink car this time! Um...just kidding. Nobody's trying to convert Draco-lovers here...whistles innocently...

Um, yes, extremely long response to a long ramble. Gotta stop...now.

**DracoDraconis**: Wow, so many reviews! It was very nice of you to leave so many! Any who, I shall answer them in order:

Chapter 6: Thanks so much! I'm glad you appreciate so many aspects of the story...enough to fave it! As to that argument about Draco and Ron...well, you've read enough to know my response to that.

Chapter 7: Nothing much to respond with, except a blush and another "thank you!"

Chapter 8: Sigh. If only I had a quarter every time one of my readers became confused. I'd be rich enough to buy two dairy queen blizzards. I'm with ya; I can't wait until this fic is over either. It's killing me! Any who, thanks again!

Chapter 13: Yes, well, there was a reason..mainly that he was being Draco...

Chapter 14: Yes, I love that cat. I especially love the casting of that cat in the movies. It's the most wonderful, ugliest rag doll I've ever seen!

Chapter 15: Very tempting, very tempting...her name is constantly changing, so I wouldn't be surprised if her email was changing as well. If you're very dedicated, you may look up "inquisitive me," but I doubt much can move the heart of the heartless.

Chapter 16: It would make my life infinitely easier if I could shorten things. But then that life would be endangered by dozens of angry reviewers!

Chapter 18: And finally, last chapter! Thanks again for all the wonderful comments. Though, as much as I appreciate your reviews, you might want to stop reading, as you seem to be a dedicated d/hr shipper, and I can't promise it will turn out that way. He is, after all, being a total ass about things. :0)

**aurelione**: It's not commitment, really. It's more like fear. I can't imagine what I'd do if I posted another twenty-pager. Probably have to hire protection. And yay! Bouncing ferret toys! One cannot ever have enough!

**sugar n spice 522**: thank you! I hope you've had a good holiday season as well! Any ways, that whole fifty page thing was exhausting. It shall never happen again. I've no idea how I come up with all the weasley interaction as well–most likely a pathetic amount of free time. As to answer your questions...look a distraction!

And that's how Adelaide E subtly managed to not answer sugar n spice 522's questions. Slick, ain't she?

**Star-Angel23**: What? Scared? Is this my fault? So sorry, I can't help being obnoxiously opinionated! I'm glad you've decided to review any way, despite my less than cheery attitude!

Thank you, thank you, merci, gracias, grazi, salamat, and, oh yes, thank you. There. That should cover all the nice things you've written:0)

I'm glad you liked that part! I'm not sure if people picked up on it. The inclusion of Emma and Daniel is just another silly whim of mine (much like that Chamber of Secretspool idea), but I also thought that the idea of "Emma," was quite inevitable, as it seems to be very popular name.

I thought it would have been too predictable for Ginny to play that all-knowing, calm and reliable friend when Hermione's water broke. Besides, I don't blame her for being distracted; I'm very certain I've wasted half of my life in front of a television.

I'm very glad to hear that you'll leave a review. I don't want you to feel obligated or anything, however. Like I said to another first time/last time reviewer, I don't mind being silently appreciated. It's nice that people just take the time to read this any way. I know I sometimes forget to review something I like, and it's no big deal.

**Bella**: Sigh, I wish I was French too. Or at least something European. Especially when one considers the depressing exchange rate of the dollar and the euro...okay, I'm digressing now.

Why should you being Australian be a secret? I'd adore going to Australia one day, and rescue things on the side of the road like my favorite herpetologist.

Pity I can't learn Italian this semester. Schedule changes prevented such a thing, which is so disappointing because I've already purchased the books and the cd. Oh well, the schedule change will give me a chance to be a step closer in completing my minor in French and then, maybe after that, I'll have time to learn Italian. How I envy you for already knowing both!

Oh god, how I would have loved to see you go randomly giggly in a nice restaurant! Poor woman! Three identical triplets under the age of 6? Such things should not exist in reality!

Okay, you've never met my father. He scares children by just smiling at them. In fact, he scares me just by smiling at me, and I'm practically a grown woman (age wise, at least.)

Me, I sort of pictured a ten foot by ten foot butcher shop, walls lined with red meat, and then a group of boys recklessly going at it. Sigh. I adore boys. Without them, the world would never know comic stupidity.

Oh all right! But, just to let you know, I'm bringing Draco back with a frowny face on!

**Onion Layers**: Aw, how strange of me to say "Thank you" to somebody who has called me evil. Isn't being contrary lovely?

If you're a sap, then I'm simply pathetic. I nearly cried during every episode of Ally McBeal and Felicity. And those were supposed to be funny sometimes.

Hey now, the labor wasn't that long! Compared to some women! As for me, I hope that when the day comes and I'm crazy enough to want kids, I hope to have labor like my manager. She had her baby in an hour and a half. It was simply unfair, my other coworkers declared.

**Monkeystarz**: Shucks and chucks, I'm all fuzzy feeling because you called it "amazingly inspiring."

Hmm, about Draco being there but not there...er, you'll figure it out later.

As for me, I found the length exhausting. Never again I tell you. Then again, I said that to myself after my last novel-length story, and here I am, torturing myself once more.

Do you know...yes, you did win hangman. And, for your prize, you get to read another chapter. Hooray!

Time is stupid. If I had my way, I'd be graduated by now and in my comfy librarian job.

If I had a time machine, I'd go and see how the this fic ended, so that I could stop my stress right now. Also, I'd probably look at some lotto numbers. That'd be great.

I love butter and mexican food, but usually not together. Ew, gross story! My coworker went and got mexican food the other day, and she found three bugs in her burrito! ALIVE!

My mom says she ate a whole bunch of peanuts when she was pregnant with me, and that, after I was born, she tried to avoid eating them with my little sister. I think this was an insult.

Did I work in a dungeon...I tell you monkeystarz, it's scary how all-knowing you are. The library counts as a dungeon, doesn't it? Well, it certainly felt like I was being tortured...

Love you too, hon, but, truthfully, if I had to save either you or butter from an erupting volcano, I'll have to choose butter. I've known it longer. Another gross fact: When I was much younger and had nothing to eat, I would eat little slices of butter. It's a miracle I haven't died of a heart attack yet!

**expoeraser:** I find that whole single review per chapter pretty annoying as well. Another reason why I love checkmated! so much!

What? You think I want Hermione ending up with Draco? It'll be a cold day in hell!

But, if that's the only rational conclusion once I reach the end, then that's how it'll be. I try to do my best though, and do what's best for Hermione.

Oh my goodness, you're so sweet! It's not possible to be your favorite author in both fanfictionnet and cm! I mean, maybe I can sorta understand how I can be your fave on ffnet, because there is absolutely no bar set for some of these crappy writers, but cm! I'm flattered beyond flattery!

And I'm amazed that you'd still love me even if I write a different ending.

I'm very certain half of my reviewers would drop me in a second once they heard wind of a non draco-hermione ending! At least, that's my deepest fear! I don't know if it's rational or not.

I'll try, I'll try, but I can't randomly put Ronnieness any where I'd like...well, actually, yes I can, but I'd rather not self-indulge:0)

Now for your review of Chapter 18:

I bet now you want to take back that "pretty quick with your updates" comment! So sorry for this unforgivable delay! What with Christmas, and then this absolute crap time I've had with scheduling classes–god, I just wish I could quit college. I hope nobody planning on going to college reads that rather discouraging line!

I'll admit, I've had trouble with post-war Harry. Harry without that "Must Save the World" angst just seems to be half a person. But, I've tried to fill that void with that "Must Save Ron" angst and then a little bit of dry humor. I've noticed as well that most people simply portray him as a humorless, anguished young man, but I just hate that. A boy can't survive as much as Harry has survived, after all, without some bit of humor to get through the days.

Thanks for noticing!

Also, in response to your owl, this chapter won't be extremely Ronnielicious...there's just a hint of it...but, if it makes you feel better, it's not extremely Draco-ish either.

P.S. Meant to tell you, the issue which bothered both of us immensely has now gone away. She up and confessed and deleted the fic. Don't know what might have sparked this sudden contrition; perhaps that four page review of mine that nobody would want to remain on their review page...Any who, now that it's done, I just wanted to say thanks again for all your help!

**Tough Fluff**: Heylo again!

Hmm, whether or not it made no sense at all is up to the reader. I certainly had no problems understanding the gist of it. Maybe it's because my brainwaves were already screwed up. Oh well. Who is this "they" who standardized spelling and grammar? I have a bone to pick with them.

Yes, you must get used to my very long responses. I have a knack for them. I was going to say "gift for them" but then I realized some people might not find my rambling that great...

You wish you had a family that size. NO YOU DO NOT! Those hectic Weasley scenes were inspired by my own mini-family reunions–and by mini, I mean about three or four families–and most of the time, I'm annoyed as hell by all the confusion. Avoid it if you can, tough fluff. Run if you must.

Well, I'm glad you appreciated Harry's insightful question. I don't think anybody at the table did, however, poor thing.

Now, now, the twins do not see it as "taking advantage." They're just being...um...opportunistic. Yes. That's it. I'm glad for Arthur as well. Harry certainly didn't deserve to win, being the heir of two fortunes and everything.

About the birth: I didn't want it to be weepy, but I didn't want it to be too silly either. Fred and George–and Harry, that helpful idiot–helped out with reducing the weepy factor. And, as much as it killed me, the addition of Draco-thoughts helped out with reducing the silly factor. I'm glad to know I balanced as much as I hoped.

And, to be fair, the numbchucks were be distracted by the hypnotic picture box...

A snow-bartender is even more awesome than a snow-butler! He'd never run out of ice!

And, finally, even in light of a slightly misjudged costume choice, I still love Prince Harry. The press is so evil to him. They always want to pick on every little mistake he does. I'm sure Prince William isn't as perfect as the public would like to believe. Any who, that's it. I love both Harry's. :0)

**the quiet 1**: Good lord, it's been ages since I've written you a response! Hello! How are you doing?

I totally understand that "arguing for the sake of argument" idea. I do it all the time. I really should stop, because I think I'm alienating friends...

Oh, go on and say "overly critical bitch." I know I am. Plenty have said it before. I'm not sure if it's my strength or my weakness, but, either way, I know it's unchangeable. :0)

Well, vague verity was thought out to the last sentence. This story is thought out to a certain point. That's why I'm very stressed, because I'm not entirely sure how to end it. A bit stupid of me, I guess.

The baby's name will be...Revealed in this Chapter. Yes, it's a mouthful, isn't it?

**Graysen**: Hiya! Was it Draco who kicked Harry? Um...no. As very likely as that malicious action would be, the culprit is actually less obvious. The red haired, female, one-of-three-triplets culprit.

But don't feel bad, being fooled by their evil innocence. It's their ultimate weapon.

Good lord, now I sound as if Harry will be battling the mini-Poppies next!

Aw, why can't any of my readers be "patiently" waiting for more? Because then I wouldn't feel so bad taking forever and a day to update:0)

**Brandybuckbeak**: Heya,

Strange, strange little girl. Nobody rubs their hands together in maniac eagerness of angst. NORMAL people hide their enthusiasm, at least:0) Just kidding. I was starting to miss the angst as well, though it's a bit sad that the both of us view a bundle of joy as anguish-opportunity. We're sick, sick people.

Hooray for spacing! But, do whatever you want, I honestly don't mind.

Draco a Seer? Nope, he's just annoyingly lucky, that's what he is. Glad you picked up on that Harry-Daniel thing!

Just a tad scared. As in...just a tad bit? As in...just a THADDEUS BITTENSWORTH?

Oh god, I'm pathetic. I make jokes and references to my own fanfic. Somebody help me.

Thank you and I hope you had a merry Christmas and a good new year too! I spent my entire new year's eve alone and watching the special edition RoTK. Both simply extended version and then I watched it again with the audio commentary. I LOVE MERRY AND PIPPIN! They're so funny. I guess, though, considering they're not playing Merry and Pippin during the audio commentary, I shouldn't refer to them like that. But, oh well, old habits die hard.

Me, I'm pouting as well, for now school's begun. The angst has already started on my end, I assure you.

Dastardly Snail: Now, now, he didn't really win. It really didn't take brain power to figure out what the sex was. After all, there were only two choices. He was just lucky.

I cringe at the thought of the miracle of life as well. I'm half hoping that–in the event that I marry and then get knocked up during a financially stable period–I'll faint half way through and the doctor can take care of everything. That's lazy of me, isn't it?

**Dastardly Snail**: If it was a girl, and then somehow Draco turned her into a boy, I feel very sorry for that gender-confused infant.

Silly kid. Bastardaco is...um...a Genovian name, and clearly, neither Hermione nor Draco have Genovian blood.

Why oh why do people keep telling me they'll never give birth? Keep in mind Hermione had a lack of drugs. Me, I'd be perfectly willing to continue earth's population as long as I'm totally unconscious during labor.

Thanks for the review!

**Athena Linborn**: Oh dear, I didn't mean to discourage people from continuing earth's population! You must not rule out having kids altogether, Athena, because then how will your writing skills be passed onto the next generation?

Any who, thanks for the review!

**smaloukis**: Never apologize for not reviewing! I realize that my readers have much more of a life than me, and so I don't want anybody to feel obligated to review every single chapter!

About the letters; I actually wanted a way to make each person have their own font, but I couldn't. I don't know if it's simply impossible or I'm not computer savvy enough. Oh well. Sorry about the confusion!

I'm getting scared. People love chapter 18! Surely I can't top that at all!

Thanks, thanks, thanks! I love it when reviewers point out what they like the most. It helps me know what I'm doing right and what I'm doing wrong.

The Painted Past

Chapter 19

**Love goes cold in the shades of doubt  
The strange fate in my mind is all too clear**

xoxox

Below the maternal trauma, the rooms were brightly lit and warm, filled with lively chatter and exhausting youth. For a few amusing moments, the Weasley brothers claimed the dubious and unprecedented honour of chaperoning younger, more troublesome ginger haired children.

"Do you like school?" Percy was asking Henrietta, in hopes of distracting her from his rather shoddy job of braiding. Henri had initially asked Charlie to braid her waist length hair, but, according to Charlie, Percy was the most talented with that sort of business.

"No. Do you like Crookshanks?" The animal had initially protested such abuse from the three girls, but inevitably succumbed to the rough ministrations. The smuggled muggles had an extraordinary–and, to the twins, enviable–talent of injuring others without the slightest indication of guilt. Now it lay in Henri's lap with pitiful lethargy.

"No."

"Do you like Crookshanks?" Henri asked Fred when it appeared her hair dresser was too preoccupied to elaborate.

Fred was sitting much like Henri, Indian style, across from her. "Yes. Do you like crups?"

"Yes. Do you like wallabies?"

"Yes. What's a wallaby?"

"I dunno. What's a crup?"

Fred only shrugged, not terribly interested in explaining the animal to her. She was most likely never to see one any ways.

"I like rabbits," Henri said in her happy, random way.

"What a coincidence," Fred drawled in his most gruesome voice. "We're having rabbit stew tonight."

Fred felt badly enough when Henri's eyes widened in terror, but that pain was doubled when Percy had flicked a hair band into his eye. Who knew the prat had such good aim?

While Percy hopelessly fiddled with the copious amounts of copper tresses, George was discussing very serious matters with Julia in a private corner.

"Now, I'll give you two knuts if you run to Bill and cry 'daddy.' Three knuts if you produce convincing tears."

"Fifteen knuts," Julia stated with a defiant jut of her chin.

"Fifteen?" George repeated. "Ten!"

"Twelve!"

"Eleven!"

"Twenty!"

That last offer made the Weasley stop abruptly. "How is that abiding by the rules of bargaining?" George demanded, bewildered.

"Okay! Fifteen again!" Julia decided, hands on hips stubbornly.

"Knuts don't grow on trees, little girl."

"Yes they do!"

"I beg to differ."

"Beg all you want. I'm right. Peanuts! Don't they grow on trees? Well, I know they're a plant." Charlie, who had been sitting closest to the scheming pair, began to laugh uproariously at George's dumbfounded expression.

While her sister was agriculturally bargaining, Nadine held Mr. Weasley utterly enthralled and Bill very amused.

"And then what do you do?"

"Well, usually mum hits and kicks it," Nadine answered matter of factually. "Then she prays. Then she turns it off–"

"How?"

"How what?"

"How does she turn it off?"

"Well, she uses the mouse to click on the shut off button–"

"And this mouse," Arthur interrupted once more, growing very excited. "Does it mind living within a computer?"

"It's not inside," she laughed. "It's beside it."

"And it doesn't run away?"

"Only when mum throws it against the wall."

Harry, having dealt with the troublesome triplets before, was quite glad to leave the company and repair the mess Mr. Weasley and Percy had concocted in the kitchen. Ever since that fateful night at the flat, the young man had always told himself he would be present at the actual birthing, much like Ron would have been. But, upon his protests to Mrs. Weasley's evacuation, Hermione had sent him a look so murderous he could not refuse. It was not that he actually feared her succeeded in giving him any bodily harm. It was just that it was an utter bastard who would dare displease a woman in labour.

He had been an utter bastard, actually. If Harry was to be extreme truthful–which was on rare occasions–then he would admit that he had wanted, desperately, to stay and do what Ron would have done, and endure Hermione's abuse with a game face. In fact, he had said, amidst Hermione's scathing looks, "Perhaps I should..."

"Harry," Hermione had bitten out in between one of those mystifying things called Contractions. "If we need somebody to save babies from burning buildings, we'll fetch you. This, however–" At this point, Hermione pointed to her...er...womanly portal...and Harry wildly looked around the room in a panic. "Is not your area of expertise. Go away!"

It was at that point that Harry decided poor Hermione was suffering enough, after all, and it was not necessary to quibble with her on such trivial matters at such an important moment. Also, a longer stay would have inevitably led to arguments with Poppy, and nobody wanted that hell cat to raise her voice. If Hermione ever felt the urge to have him near, then, surely, Mrs. Weasley would send for him.

Also, if Truth was to give him a shove, he would admit that his feelings were very hurt by Hermione's angry threats. Saving babies from burning buildings? It wasn't as if he flew around, wearing a cape, waiting for the Potter signal to appear in the night sky!

And not an area of expertise? He would have her know that...well, she was completely right; in comparison to the Slut of Slytherin, Harry Potter was practically a virgin. He was more familiar with the Quidditch pitch than the female form, but one ought not to know that about one's best friend. Also, he did not want any area of Hermione to be _his _area of anything.

He had just succeeded in prying the spatula off the frying pan when he heard an odd, faint noise. He paused, ruined spatula in mid air, half turned towards the sink. It was too small to be one of the girls. It was too pretty to be Percy.

Harry was half way up the stairs when something grabbed his ankle and sharply pulled. At first, he originally believed the culprit to be one of the miniature Poppies, and did not kick. But then he felt rather large feet climb over his fallen form, and glanced up to see a red haired maniac cheating his way to the end of the race.

Hoping that no internal bleeding would stop him from being named godfather, Harry picked himself up and once more raced to Ron's room. He thought the others would like to know why he and Fred were scrambling to the room–though, by recent events, he reflected, it should have been obvious–but did not want any more competition.

Before he could cross the door way, he was slowed once more by the same twin, who was charging out of the room in sheer terror.

"It's not a baby! It's a juicy garden gnome!" Fred exclaimed, eyes wide with terror. With some puzzlement, Harry turned and watched him give the dubious news to the others.

He didn't want to see a juicy garden gnome, Harry decided and hesitated in the door way.

Then again, Harry remembered, Hermione wasn't one to mate with garden gnomes. Randy, colourless, inbred, and evil ferrets, yes. Garden gnomes, no.

Squaring his shoulders, prepared to coo and sigh even if she had given birth to a raisin, Harry cautiously peeked inside.

xoxox

Hermione reflected that, as a new mother, she wasn't off to a good start. For, although it–no, he, she corrected herself silently–was out of her arms and therefore horrifyingly vulnerable, Hermione was not focused on her new son. Her eyes were observing an oblivious Molly Weasley. From the lamp, an amber glow lent its light generously about the room. And yet the mother's face appeared so dark and shuttered...Hermione did not know what to say.

After she had gently lowered the infant into Poppy's arms, the midwife straightened and then appeared startled. She did not hear Poppy's polite question, and nor did she respond to Ginny's worried expression. Instead Molly's pleasantly rounded face froze, ever so slightly, as she backed away from the bed. Hermione thought that, probably, Molly did not know what she was doing. She did not know she was picking up those comic books, and placing them on a shelf. She did not know she was straightening the books on Quidditch and spells and nonsense. She did not know she was closing that closet door or this drawer. She did not know how to stop being a mother to a son who was no longer there.

"I'll be back," Molly promised tremulously, eyes suspiciously bright, and then walked unsteadily out the door. They heard her footsteps turn not towards the stairs, but to her own room.

Hermione did not want that. She did not want to ever, ever know that feeling. _My god_, she thought with sudden intensity. _That could happen to me. I'm a mother now. I may have to experience what Mrs. Weasley experiences every day._

A small gurgle escaped from the toweled bundle in Poppy's arms, instantly capturing Hermione's attention once more.

_No_, she decided fiercely. _Never. I'm going to protect him. He's never going to be injured, and, if I had my way, he's never going to know unhappiness. I don't know his name, but I do know I'm going protect him. I'm going to protect him and I will never know that feeling that she knows now. I will never know that._

"I will never know that," Hermione whispered.

"What was that?" Ginny asked distractedly. Before Hermione could offer an explanation, they were surprised by a red-haired blur bursting through the door. The new mother thought she saw Fred in the speedy whirlwind, but was not quite certain, for as soon as he entered, he left in a veritable panic.

"That was peculiar," Poppy commented.

The door creaked open again.

To Harry, Poppy was drying her hands in a rather peculiar way.

"Selfish beast," he drawled, stepping in with more confidence. "Taking care of yourself when there's a new baby floating about."

"Thoughtless vermin," Poppy easily replied, turning towards him. "I'm taking care of this supposedly floating baby."

Harry was literally stunned. He had never encountered something so small. While he had believed Poppy was toweling herself, she was actually holding the smallest human being in the world–at least by Harry's estimation. _Good lord_, he thought to himself. _I bet my shoe's bigger than that. I bet that can fit inside my shoe. I bet I could put it in my shoe, and then put a potato or something in there, and there's still be room–_

"There are many worrisome concepts in that scenario," Ginny began calmly, sitting beside a quietly weeping Hermione. "Why on earth would you want to put the baby in your shoe? And why would you want a potato for company? And, if all of that is true, you have freakishly large feet."

"Yes," Poppy said to an astonished Harry. "You were speaking aloud."

Harry was disconcerted, having never experienced such verbal diarrhea before. To quell the embarrassment, he offered something distracting. "I was expecting a garden gnome."

Poppy frowned, making her way to Hermione to give her the now dried infant. "I can't decide if it's an insult to me or not."

"Don't flatter yourself," Harry rebuked. "Fred said–"

"You rhymed," Poppy pointed out happily, with no other reason to annoy him. She succeeded.

With a deep sigh, he began again. "Fred told me–"

"Fred," Ginny interrupted, handing Hermione a tissue, "got a view of him before Poppy had a chance to wipe away the mess. I imagine it would frighten any grown man. Seeing how Fred falls just short of that..." Ginny giggled.

"Him?" Harry repeated, shooing Ginny away to sit by his best friend. "It's a boy then?"

"Yes," Poppy answered, when it was apparent Hermione was not ready to respond. "When one uses 'him' one is generally referring to a boy."

"Unless that one is you," Harry easily responded. "I reckon, to you, 'him' is any of the five hundred blokes you've traumatised with romance."

"That's an insult," Poppy gasped.

"It was meant to be," Harry smiled.

"Five hundred?" Poppy repeated. "A thousand at least."

"Please," Hermione suddenly hiccuped with unexpected force, "Please stop flirting over my post natal depression!"

"I"m not flirting!"

"With him? Are you mad?"

"No," Ginny answered, rudely pulling the pair away from the now sniffling girl. "She's very reasonable when she doesn't want rude flirtations in the presence of her little Rupert."

"Rupert?" Hermione repeated with revulsion. Harry peered over Ginny's shoulder to observe how the newborn liked the suggested name.

He wrinkled his tiny nose–no bigger, Harry estimated wisely, than a speck of dust–and decided that, no, Rupert would not make it to the birth certificate.

"Besides," Hermione said, "no decent ginger haired person is named Rupert. That'll guarantee a 'Red Rupy' nickname somewhere down the road."

"Red haired," Harry repeated, once more shoving Ginny rudely aside to get a better view of him. He had not initially seen any hair colour, assuming that, like most babies, it would be bald. Hermione smiled wanly, and pulled off the pink sheet that was covering her son's head. Faint tufts of red hair covered the infant's crown.

"My god," Harry breathed. "It's this house isn't it? Anything born in this house has red hair. It's like a curse."

"Excuse me," Ginny said indignantly, "but I'm rather fond of it."

"Me too!" Poppy added.

"But you've left the red haired minority," Ginny pointed out, distracted.

"Yes, but I'm standing up on behalf of my daughters," Poppy explained, and Ginny conceded it was a good point.

Harry watched the two, disliking how easily they got along. Was helping one friend give birth a permanent bonding experience–like saving one friend from a troll? Did this mean Poppy and Ginny and Hermione would go out for lunch and plot devious plans for the male population while he had to babysit the little nameless one?

He certainly hoped not. His gender would never survive.

"Why were you crying?" he asked Hermione softly. For a while, he thought she would not answer, for she was staring intently at her new child for a very long time.

"I don't know," she finally said, not bothering to look up from Nameless One's sleeping face. "I just...I just felt like crying. Have you ever felt that way, Harry? Oh, what am I saying? Of course you have."

"I feel unmanned."

"One would think you'd be used to the feeling," Poppy said from somewhere behind him.

Ginny laughed. "I was about to make the same joke."

"Oh, perfect," Harry muttered, gently petting Hermione's baby like one would pet a puppy. The new mother appeared vaguely annoyed with his manner but said nothing. "They'll be having hair-dyeing parties next."

Hermione had nothing to say in reply, completely absorbed by the being in her arms. She was an intelligent woman, Hermione Granger. She knew almost everything of the muggle world, and everything of the wizarding world, and a few things in between. Yet, somehow, for some reason she could not pinpoint, the idea of another being coming from her was too surreal to grasp.

She had made this. This living, breathing, perfectly made human in her arms. She had made this, and nurtured it for almost ten months, never thinking that one day it would be here. Waiting for guidance, depending totally on her for continuing survival. The enormity of the responsibility was staggering, almost frightening...and yet she was looking forward to every second of it.

She was saved from replying, however, when the door creaked open once more, and the room was flooded by red heads.

Charlie took one look at the baby–miraculously still sleeping despite the triplet's happy squeals–and turned to punch Bill's arm. "Shame on you!"

"Why does my entire family believe I am copulating with everybody in England?"

"Well..." Harry said helpfully, "you are a Weasley."

"Then how come I'm never accused of sleeping around and knocking up women?" George asked. "Last time I checked, I'm a Weasley too."

"Because you're George Weasley, son," Arthur clarified. "And no sane woman will ever want to populate with you."

"It cannot possibly be healthy," Hermione huffed jokingly, "to have such a negative family atmosphere so soon after birth."

If there was any doubt of the baby's heritage, it was completely erased when the baby boy awoke and revealed startling grey eyes. The father's identity was further confirmed when, upon finding the Weasley-filled view, Hermione's son thought it displeasing and promptly closed them once more.

"Well," Percy said wryly, "he has his father's people skills."

There ensued much confusion as to who was allowed to hold the baby, and for how long, and if the baby liked it, and how Hermione was feeling, and how the nurses' hands were feeling, and if they could, please, make sure the triplets did not grab a hold of any tiny limbs...

"Not that I was paying overt attention to the region any way," Fred abruptly began innocently after all the parents had quitted the chamber. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had left to send letters to others, such as The Dumble, Remus, and other close family friends, while Poppy took her brood to the kitchen and ensure that they did not attempt to force their vegetables down Crookshanks' throat.

"But...well, Hermione, your chest seems a bit...damp."

"Perv," Bill reprimanded with a blow to Fred's shoulder.

"I said I wasn't staring at her chest! Besides! It is damp!"

"Is that breast milk?" Percy asked.

Hermione was becoming very uncomfortable with so many males in the room and in such a state. "I believe elbow milk is not a rational conclusion," she snapped.

Ginny, recognising her friend's embarrassment, abruptly smiled at her bewildered brothers' and gently suggested it was time to leave Hermione and her baby in peace. When the usual scoffs met her persuasive words, Ginny threatened to tell their mother that they were treating a new mother deplorably.

"Well, that threat never loses its charm," she noticed once she and Hermione were alone once more. Hermione's brow was still furrowed in discontent, however, and she looked up at Ginny with angry confusion.

"How is it done?"

"How is what done?"

"Well...I assumed it would be all by instinct...but I simply don't know..."

She was interrupted by the suprisingly strong whimpers of the newborn, who was apparently saving the troublesome behavior for his mother's arms only.

"Surely there isn't a technique to breast feeding?" Ginny asked, alarmed.

Hermione nodded. "I know there was a chapter on it, but I only skimmed it, because I assumed...well...I don't suppose you know, do you?"

"Ah...no. I know! I'll get Poppy!"

"But then who will ensure that the triplets will behave?"

"The boys will, of course."

"I ask again: who will ensure that the triplets will behave?"

Ginny laughed, shaking her head as she quickly sprinted out of the room. "Have some faith in them, Hermione."

Hermione, understandably exhausted, was quite content to end the day. It was simply too exhausting to have this occur once in a life time. She did not understand why Mrs. Weasley had endured that seven times.

Then the baby, done with the dramatics, sniffled very briefly and stilled once more into a peaceful slumber. And Hermione did not understand why Mrs. Weasley had endured that for only seven times.

"Oh daddy," she said quietly. "Oh mum. You'd be so in love with him. You'd be so happy."

Sometimes, when he wasn't feeling repulsed by the idea of Hermione growing up, Dr. Granger would speak of future grandchildren. Of how they'd drive Hermione mad, just as she drove them mad. Of how he'd make sure they watched the right films, and respect the right historical figures.

Sometimes, when she wouldn't become teary at the thought of Hermione leaving, Dr. Granger would dream of knitting for future grandchildren. Of how they would probably pretend to love the horrible creations, just for grand mum's sake. Of how Hermione would utterly hate her own parents for spoiling her children so.

"Who's going to spoil you?" she asked the silent infant with some worry. "No child should be born without grand parents. No child at all."

Hermione had no idea how she would manage to both spoil him and raise him correctly. Every child–even Draco Malfoy's child–deserved some spoiling now and then. But, no matter how silly or contradictory she became, Hermione decided she would be everything her son needed. Mother, father, grandfather or grandmother. She was going to love him and spoil him and protect him with all her being.

Children without parents were called orphans, Hermione reflected silently. But what were childless parents called?

"Devastated," Hermione quietly answered herself.

Then she leaned back against the pillows, and smiled down at her creation. Yes, it was frightening. But, what fun it was going to be. Already, Hermione attempted to remember her father's favourite movies and her mother's favourite recipes.

"I remember my grandfather's second cousin having red hair," she told him knowingly. "I suppose that that genetic trait pops up every once in a while. You'll learn, you know, that I'm always right."

As intelligent as she was, Hermione could not have possibly foreseen the next events.

The entire foundation of the Burrow suddenly rocked and rattled without any warning whatsoever.

Three children and a newborn began crying very, very, very loudly.

And Mr. Weasley asked so clearly Hermione heard him very clearly through the walls: "Where's George and Harry?"

xoxox

It was windy.

Percy learned this without looking out the window. Percy learned this without consulting anybody who had stepped outside today. Percy learned this because a wall was missing.

Well, that was a bit of an exaggeration, actually. It was simply cracked so tremendously that it was not much use of a wall at all, not shielding anybody from the arctic gusts surrounding the Burrow. It was a cloudy night, and the explosion had caused a few of the lights to snuff out in fear.

Under normal circumstances, he would have been slightly peeved at the disaster. But this was an unforeseeable boon, for he had been doing a rather crap job at braiding that little girl's hair, and the wind had undone any evidence of his half efforts. He had actually been fearing her reaction to the sight of her mangled hair.

But little Henrietta, little Nadine, and little Julia cared not for hair, nor for the structure of the Weasley home.

"We didn't meant to!" they were sobbing while clinging to the skirts of one amazed Poppy Porpington.

Who, by Percy's observation, might as well have turned into stone. Her tawny skin had turned into a disturbing grey colour. She was biting her bottom lip so hard it had turned white. Her pert nose, usually flaring with rage or annoyance, was turning pink from the cold. And her brown eyes were glued to the damage without blinking for–Percy checked the time–thirty eight seconds.

In the stunned silence, Fred stepped closer to the destruction. Then he bent to observe one broken piece of the wall. And his tongue would have darted out to taste the roughly hewn material had not Molly Weasley shouted her censure.

The twin stood up innocently. "Percy told me once that our house was made of ginger bread."

Perce frowned in irritation. "I was eight."

"Old enough to know better," Bill laughed in a perfect imitation of their father.

"I–" The Weasley family turned to the awed mother, who was now leaning against the edge of the table in the most alarming way. The beginning of her sentence was choked and odd sounding, and left a great many in confusion.

A great many except Molly Weasley. "Now, now, these things happen," she began soothingly, mistakenly interpreting her speechless state as a bystander's innocent surprise. When Mrs. Weasley stepped closer to Mrs. Porpington, she was bewildered to find the transfer of six, small, hands onto her skirt.

"We didn't mean to! We're sorry!"

"What do they mean?" Arthur asked the room in general.

"Ah..." Charlie began rubbing the back of his neck almost sheepishly. "My fault...mostly..."

"Why do I get the feeling I'll shoulder the blame," Fred wondered aloud.

"First thing's first," Percy sighed, and reached into his back pocket. He was very surprised to find nothing there, and walked to the couch to see if his wand had fallen between the cushions.

"It's right here," a little ginger haired girl said timidly, holding the wand in her fist. Percy retrieved the wand, thanked her, and then repaired the wall within a few seconds. Then he sent Fred to go find a mop, on account of this entire mess was probably his mess any way, and he did not know where their resident custodian–also known as Harry Potter–was at the moment.

When the company was able to sit in a dry, warm kitchen, Poppy regained her ability of speech. "Hang on," she started almost as soon as she sat down. "How did you get that wand?" she demanded of Henri.

Percy hadn't really thought of why the little muggle child had helped him find it. "Yes," he added, feeling confused himself. "How?"

Henrietta Porpington's response was a very succinct yet not quite satisfying, "Um..."

"Now children," Molly began to admonish lightly, "one mustn't go around stealing wands. It's very bad–"

"We didn't steal them!" Nadine and Julia immediately protested, only to quiet meekly under Poppy's quelling stare.

"Oy," Charlie nudged Percy, "look! I guess it's not just mum who gives that Death-Is-Imminent look to children..."

Bill spoke up, "We didn't think it would do any harm."

"We?" Arthur, who, under Molly's orders, was fixing everybody a cup of tea, repeated absently.

"Me and Charlie," Bill clarified. "I mean...they're muggles. A wand should have no response to their feelings. They're not..."

"What did I tell you three?" Poppy interrupted with a pained moan. "What did I say to you before we left the flat?"

Henri, most likely the bravest, crossed her arms stubbornly and frowned back at her formidable mother. "You said not to touch anything from the twins. You didn't say we couldn't get things from the other brothers."

"Don't quote my exact words as an argument against me," Poppy gasped, sounding comically insulted.

"That's really unfair of mothers, "Fred noticed, addressing his brothers, all of whom sat on his side of the table. "They like it when we remember what they say, but they don't like it when we remember what they say to use it in an argument. Hypocritical, if you ask me."

The others were inclined to agree.

Much to the delight and relief of the Porpington triplets, Arthur began to send the teacups to the table via magic, thus interrupting the incriminating conversation.

"I wanna learn how to do that next!" Julia cheerfully announced once a glass of milk neatly floated into her cupped hands.

"You're not going to learn anything," Poppy said severely. "Damaging their home, Julia? After they were kind enough to let you visit and have supper and–"

"Teach us how to eat supper with chopsticks," Nadine finished, wiping the milk moustache with her hand before Mrs. Weasley could reach forward and dab it away with a napkin. Bill and Charlie winced visibly.

"What does she mean?" Percy asked helpfully.

"Well..." Charlie grabbed Bill's wand and held it to his own in an awkward angle, so that the points met together like a snapping jaw. "Look. Perfect chopsticks. The girls wanted to know. We tried to teach Julia how to hold it, but then Nadine wanted to try, and the two began to quarrel–"

"That's not true," one daughter protested. "I had it first, and then Julia tried to take it away."

"Really," Poppy began, almost forgetting the situation, "it's not so hard to tell the difference. Julia has my nose–"

"Kitten nose!" Julia shouted happily, drawing an adoring look from Mrs. Weasley.

"Yes, a kitten nose, and Nadine has my chin–"

"Determined chin!" Nadine shouted in the same, adorable manner, drawing the same reaction. Mr. Weasley began to worry if his wife would ever let the cute trio leave the Burrow.

"And Henri has my mouth."

"Athletic mouth!" Henri singsonged happily.

Poppy smiled tightly, making it very clear that "kitten" was substituted for "snub," "determined" for "stubborn," and "athletic" for "unstoppable" in an effort to ensure the right level of self esteem. "Not to mention," she finished, "the hair length–"

"Still," Bill interrupted, leaning forward to the mother of three, who was sitting before him. "Identity aside, we were told one basic fact. They're muggle. You're muggle. That's what a certain brother said, I believe."

Fred raised his hand with an air of surrender. "Certain Brother, at your service."

"Where is George and Harry?" Arthur suddenly demanded, finding himself with two extra tea cups and no available takers.

Nobody, not even Fred, could supply the whereabouts of the usually present pair. Of course, nobody immediately believed the Weasley, and he was in the midst of honest and half hearted defense of his word when his sister bounded down the stairs.

"What the hell was that?" She demanded as soon as she arrived. Before anybody could answer, Ginny continued. "Poppy, can you see to Hermione for a moment?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

The triplets were singing a rather morbid version of "London Bridge is Falling Down," which detailed the gory fates of those on the bridge, and everybody was having difficulty hearing anything.

"Dad, what did you put in the milk?" Bill wanted to know as Ginny repeated the request.

"Nothing," Arthur answered wryly. "Children are always this lovable."

All information was exchanged in due time, of course–except for the locations of one son and one unofficially adopted son–and Poppy rushed upstairs immediately.

"This is getting a bit ridiculous," Percy sighed.

This was sighed because, as soon as Poppy had left the kitchen, two boys rolled from out of the fireplace.

"And where have you two been?" Molly demanded, though, not quite as irate as expected. Her usual temper was softened, apparently, by the presence of three little suspicious muggles.

Harry was brushing the soot away from his lenses with absurd concentration, which left George to answer.

"Cleaning the chimney, what else?" he responded with borderline-rudeness. With a dramatic flair, he shook the ash from his hair.

"George," Molly began again.

"Well, I'm sorry, mum, but it had to be done," George spoke quickly. "If it's not clean enough, then it would make it very difficult for Father Christmas, now, wouldn't it?" His eyes slid knowingly to the little girls, who were paying close attention to the exchange. "Wouldn't want to make things difficult for him, eh?"

"George," Molly tried again, "you know very well that was not what you were just doing–"

"What, mum?" George gasped. "Are you saying I was cleaning the chimney for somebody else? Surely–surely you don't mean to say that there is no Father Christmas?" For effect, he whirled to the triplets in desperation, who, being a properly responsive audience, were equally aghast by the suggestion.

"You're a manipulative bastard," Harry said under his breath once Molly had given up and assured the girls that, yes, that was exactly what her evil son had been up to.

"Jealous?" George parried with a laugh.

"So where were you two?" Fred wanted to know.

"Hogwarts," Harry easily answered. "Wanted to tell Dumbledore in person about Hermione's baby."

It was disappointing, really, how easily Harry lied to, not only the family who had helped raised him, but also three little girls and a cat, the latter of whom was the only one who had never done Harry any particular harm. The boy settled to sip his tepid tea when his lie was unmasked by the arrival of the man himself.

"Why didn't you simply come with Uncle Harry?" Nadine asked rather impertinently after the ridiculously formal introductions had been made by Fred.

"Because I didn't have the opportunity, dear Nadine," the headmaster said amiably.

"But," Henri spoke up curiously, "Uncle Harry just said–"

"Look, it's Remus," Harry interrupted loudly, two bright red spots upon his cheeks. Their former professor, always the epitome of gentlemanly conduct, had apparated outside the door and was being led to the cosy kitchen by Arthur.

"They're not blind, Harry," Lupin reminded him wryly. "And this is hardly a ceremony worthy of announcing personages."

"Oh," Albus said airily, handing the girls candy absently, "Harry was in no doubt caught in a fib about something or other, and would rather we did not expose it by speaking common sense."

"If that's the case, I'll refrain."

"Thank you both so much," Harry said with a roll of his eyes.

"So where were you then?" Fred demanded once more, this time of George, for recent evidence diagnosed Harry Potter as an incurable liar.

George usually had no moral compunction when it came to lying to his brothers, but, naturally, Fred was an exception to the case. Still, considering that the truth would have made things rather difficult later on, thus forcing the scheming pair to resort to that "Accio Draco" plan, George hesitated before answering.

The twin would have never believed it was possible to be saved by a muggle–a muggle termagant, at that–but saved he was when Poppy noisily descended and entered the kitchen once more.

She successfully distracted the Spanish Inquisition when she focused at Fred randomly to ask, "Isn't this a fire hazard? To have so many people in one room?"

"Not if we put out the fire, I suppose," Fred answered easily and with a shrug. "But then it would be a freezing hazard, wouldn't it?"

"Not with all the body heat," Poppy contradicted after a moment's contemplation. Then she smiled at the newcomers–all except Harry, to be truthful. "Hello again. I assume to you're here to see Hermione?"

"To assume makes an ass out of you."

It was no mystery as from whom this insult spouted.

"Says the boy with such expertise of asinine behaviour," Poppy sweetly replied before turning to the educators once more. "It'll be a bit of a wait," she said apologetically. "She's napping at the moment."

Remus accepted the news without surprise and moved to prevent any further arrivals when McGonnagall appeared with a crack so pleasant it only scared the triplets for a few seconds. Hagrid soon followed, and many owls arrived asking if it was possible to visit...

"Help," George gasped, lying forward on the table, "there's not enough air in the room now..."

"There's no brain cells worth saving any way," Harry assured him.

"Perhaps," Percy said over the buzz of private conversation, "we should retire to the sitting room?"

"Yes," Julia breathed with so much excitement the others were a bit frightened, "there's an Idol Christmas special on tonight!"

"I've never heard of a more feasible reason to take you away," Poppy declared, bidding Harry to find their coats. Harry was quite indignant to the thought of acting as her servant, but realised that it was the only way to be rid of the vexing woman. This silver lining, however, was erased when, upon his speedy delivery, he heard Mrs. Weasley ask Poppy to return the following day. The little girls had reacted joyously, complete with ear shattering shrieks, to this suggestion.

"Of course, I will oblige," Poppy assured the mother hen, "whenever Hermione calls for me. I wouldn't dream of presuming, however, to come on Christmas."

Harry had a horrible feeling creeping up his spine. Still, fate would not be so terrible, he reasoned, to have the reconstruction of Number Twelve, the birth of his nemesis' child, and then the next horrible possibility to happen all within such short a period of time...

_Don't say it, Mrs. Weasley. If you ever loved me at all, you will not do what I suspect you are about to do..._

"Nonsense!"

_Oh. So it was just lukewarm affection all these years..._

"Come over for Christmas! In fact, Ginny and I will need help preparing–"

"I know nothing culinary, I'm afraid," Poppy said wistfully.

Harry's heart seized that hope.

"Oh." Molly Weasley frowned, for, somehow, it had never occurred to her that a seasoned mother would not be at all adept with domestic matters. "Well, somebody will need to keep Hermione company while we're frantic in the kitchen."

Harry cleared his throat pointedly. Excuse me, that three second sound said, but the position of Hermione's Company is adequately filled at the moment.

It was disastrously the wrong sound to make, for it was only then that Poppy Porpington was aware he was against such visits. Now she smiled gratefully at Mrs. Weasley. "Well, it is very kind of you," Poppy said with genuine warmth but with also, Harry noticed, a cruel gleam in her eye. "Just let me know if Hermione needs anything at all, I'll find my way over."

Mrs. Weasley clasped her hands to her cheeks with sheepish expression. "Oh! I've quite forgotten myself. Did you have plans with the girls' other family?" The question was innocent enough. Although nobody, with the exception Hermione and possibly the Ministry, knew the nature of the separation, it was a well-established fact that Mr. Porpington and Mrs. Porpington were not on pleasant terms, on account of Mrs. Porpington's full custody and no need for obligatory holiday visits. One could not assume that the triplets' grandparents were completely out of the picture.

Nevertheless, Harry saw, by the tightening of Poppy's lips, that one could assume that and be quite right about it.

"No," she said with forced cheerfulness. "You and Mr. Weasley are the grandparents my girls have never had."

It was an evasion and a compliment, and Molly was inclined to focus on the latter. Harry watched the ensuing tittering with narrowed eyes and mentally stored the information for later use. A small part of him lectured relentlessly, stating that using obviously painful information is not the best thing to use against a single mother. The larger part of him said that this was no ordinary single mother. She was an army of mothers rolled into one, mean, little package.

Remus then volunteered to escort the Porpingtons home, despite the fact that he knew not where she lived nor what sort of characters he was exposing himself to. The reaction to such chivalry was met with some shame at not volunteering in the first place, and pity for Remus and Remus' short lived smile.

George lent the professor the keys, and, just after she had ensured the girls were safely secured, Poppy found Harry standing sullenly near the departing four, trying to manly conceal his shivers.

"You're going to ruin my Christmas," he said with contrived affront, speaking loudly to override the howling winds. That, Poppy reflected, or he was simply trying to tell her off.

"Don't flatter yourself, Harry. Self-flattery, you know, causes impotence."

Harry frowned, unable to discern as to who was influencing whom when it came to frightening lies about the male form. He shook off the confusion, and said quickly–for it was annoyingly windy–"And don't bother about finding your way over. Take this, and whenever it turns warm, that means I'm coming for you in ten minutes."

"In boy time, that means five."

"Basically, yeah."

Poppy stared curiously at the coin in her hand. "I'd best guard this carefully," she said thoughtfully. And, to Harry, thoughtlessly, as Remus and her brood had been waiting in the car for at least five minutes. "It wouldn't do, I suppose, to take it to a pawnshop?"

Instead of responding to her joke, Harry frowned. "Are you that pressed for funds?"

"No," she instantly denied, aghast at the thought of ever drawing sympathy from him. "God, Harry, don't pity the woman who plans on ruining your Christmas!"

"Aha! So you admit it!"

"I haven't done anything yet," she pointed out, opening the door and sliding in next to Lupin. "And there's no harm in planning anything."

Yes, Harry thought as he watched them drive away. Mrs. Weasley was calling from the front door step, something about catching his death of cold. There was no harm in planning anything. So there was no reason to feel guilty whenever Hermione or Fred questioned his secret matters. No reason at all.

"It is a pity Mrs. Porpington did not stay longer," Dumbledore said idly when Harry returned. Potter sent the aged man a puzzled look as he wiped the snow off his sleeves. "I would have liked to speak to her."

Harry snorted and proceeded to save George from interrogation once more. If Dumbledore was tired of life and wanted to end it with Death by Annoying Conversation, that was his choice to make.

Later, when Percy explained what had occurred minutes before their return, Harry reflected that, he too would have liked to have had a word with the woman, and that woman's daughters. Risking his life–either by crazy wizard or crazy muggle–was commonplace now.

xoxox

It should have been easy. Just do the exact opposite of what Remus taught her. Surely that would have reached him...whoever "him" was.

_Hello?_ Distantly, she was aware of her own body, slumbering in soft, warm safety.

But here, once more she was encased in that foreboding darkness, swirls of grey and black beckoning her farther and farther away from her world. Despite her faint familiarity with the macabre landscape, she was uneasy. Surely, whoever had helped her during the labour...surely, he did not live here?

_If you could call it living._

It was a bitter, sharp stab of a thought, piercing through her before she realised that she was not alone.

_Hello, hello_, she tried again, unable to stop the note of fear slithering into her soul.

_Are you here?_

She was not asking the question she wished to ask, and they both knew it.

But to ask it was an admission of guilt. An acknowledgment of the fact that, no matter who it was, she did not know him as much as she wished.

_Thank you,_ she called, the two words threading through the murkiness with little result.

_Thank you_, Hermione tried once more, this time with force. _Don't ignore me_, she pleaded, not intending to let him hear her desperation. How was it that she could not leash her thoughts, and he remained so silent?

Perhaps he had nothing to say.

Perhaps he had nothing to say _to her_.

_Wake up Hermione_, he told her, his own exhaustion slowly seeping into her mind. _There's nothing for you here._

xoxox

Fourteen people.

Harry checked at the floor suspiciously, the yellow, cheerful sunlight nearly blinding off the hardwood. It was a deception, for, no matter how bright the rays were, the winds howled to protest any sort of warmth in St. Ottery Catchpole.

Was there enough wood to support them all?

Well, fourteen people, not counting the two for whom the other fourteen had assembled.

It was the same list as that infamous lunch party not too long ago, except Mrs. Hagrid was off at her school. Neville and Seamus was off doing something or other for the Ministry, something offensively menial, Harry recalled, about lost owls.

Fourteen people was quite all right, Harry decided from the back of the eager crowd. One person for each pound that baby weighed.

It hadn't startled him, really, that the infant weighed so much. Hermione, after all, had been big enough to house an elephant during her last month of pregnancy. His best friend assured her that, although she had gained nearly three stone during something horrible called "gestation", most of the weight was fluid material. Much of that fluid material, Harry noticed later during a key event, had been left on Percy's pink sheets. Oh well, he reflected. He knew what to buy Percy then, for Christmas.

Everything was proportioned on the little monster correctly, so Harry saw no need to worry. And Molly's favourite thing to do with the child was kiss it and feed it. Still, he supposed it wasn't quite normal, for a newborn to weigh a stone so soon after birth, for, when hearing the fact, Hermione's eyebrows had risen considerably.

Speaking of questionable weight...Harry eyed Hagrid closely, who was hovering near the pair. That seemed a bit dangerous. Suppose the half giant fell over? Hermione and Nameless Baby go _splat._

He guessed it was a bit silly to act so protective of Hermione and Hermione's devil baby, but, then again, there was no father to take up that occupation, now, was there? At least not yet.

Also, it was not to be a Nameless Baby any longer. For this morning, the day before Christmas, Hermione had announced she had finally settled on a name. And, like all women, she wanted to make a tremendous fuss about it, calling as many friends as possible before she breathed a word of information. Charlie had been wrong, Harry reflected now, about that theory of postnatal Hermione's frame of mind. True, she did find the world wonderful now that her baby was officially in it, but it did not quell her love of violence. She had rapped his wrist earlier, rather harshly too, for slightly implying that Draco Malfoy's son did not need such pomp. For her baby, Hermione said, brooking no contradiction, needed everything.

Including feeding every five seconds. That's what it felt like any way. Harry had been reassigned to the couch while Hermione and company occupied Ron's room. Still, with Hermione awaking so often in the night, and then consequently unable to fall back asleep, often she came down to watch some television. Loud television. Television Harry did not find remotely interesting. He was far too sleepy to be swindled by some new kitchen instrument, really.

"Hello," she said, sitting up on the couch while everybody sat or stood around her. Molly, the Saint of Fretfulness, did not like Hermione leaving her room at all, which was why most of the late night, involuntary television bonding had never been mentioned in the light of day. Still, Hermione had reasoned, fourteen people could not fit inside Ron's tiny room. Molly, not wanting to inspect the dimensions of this claim, only agreed reluctantly.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Hermione said with a silly smile. "And Harry."

Harry bowed slightly in thanks for the distinction.

"This little boy," she said, looking adoringly at the sleeping child in her arms, "is..."

She paused, almost unsure of herself. Harry understood why, of course. Whatever she said next was binding. If she burped or something, the poor child would suffer forever.

Then she smiled, mentally doubting and then reassuring herself upon the nominal decision.

"Okay, now you're just being deliberately cruel," Remus announced impatiently.

The young mother looked up, smiled at the audience with such a beatific expression that it was instantly understood that, whether she waited a few seconds or a few years to tell them, they would wait to hear his name.

"Lawrence Egan Granger."

"Leg?" George exclaimed before anybody could respond. "You prefer that to GG? George Granger?"

Harry blinked in surprise. Lawrence and Egan sounded rather normal. He had been expecting Sophocles or something like Hermiono.

"Your grandfather's second cousin was named Egan, was he not?" Ginny asked curiously, patting Lawrence's hair gently.

"Yes," Hermione gushed, accepting the others' declarations of the lovely name choice. "And Lawrence..."

"Is it Draco's middle name?" Charlie enquired.

"No."

"Is it your father's name?" Bill asked.

"No."

"Are we ever going to guess what inspired the name?" McGonngall smiled.

"Probably not."

"Don't leave us in suspense, child, it causes indigestion," Dumbledore warned.

"Well..." Hermione blushed, but explained her influence rather proudly. "Of Arabia."

Percy tilted his head. "Have you been to Arabia?"

While Hermione explained the origin, Harry wound his way around the others, until, finally, he found a space on the couch and next to Hermione. He had no guilt in evicting Poppy from her seat, and then shooing away Ginny on Hermione's other side. With some minuscule privacy, he smiled at Hermione, leaning closer to whisper in her ear.

"I'm going to call him Larry."

He drew back slightly to watch her reaction. Hermione's brown eyes widened, looking at Harry, and then down at Lawrence with surprise. Obviously, the abbreviation had never occurred to her.

"You're the only one who'll be allowed to do so," she finally said hopefully.

Harry shook his head in amusement. "No, madam. It'll catch on. Just wait." Then, he gave a loud, childish kiss on her cheek, another, surprising kiss to her son's fist–which had been aiming for him– and left to fetch her a snack in the kitchen.

Just as he returned and dropped something edible in Hermione's hand, Harry noticed an annoying somebody quietly ascending the stairs. Poppy Porpington, Harry decided, moving even before he fully rationalized his actions, had no business being upstairs.

As he debated between an illusion of a giant spider or a dozen little girls resembling her triplets–for both, really, were equally fearsome–Harry realised that Poppy had not left the comfortable chaos alone.

She was meeting another man?

Had he gone willingly?

Was he _insane_?

He paused on the very top step, and it took some time to figure out where the two were meeting for their very ill-timed tryst. Then Harry spied some shadowy movement from under Ron's door, and lightly stepped closer to hear.

"...been very lenient with anybody associated with Mr. Potter, thankfully, but one cannot always guarantee such understanding from the Ministry, Mrs. Porpington. I had a very difficult time explaining the innocence of the situation."

Harry straightened, features growing ashen and contorted with disgust. Poppy was meeting secretly with the Dumble?

"That's disgusting!" Harry said to himself.

"Did you hear that?" Poppy asked.

"Yes, but he's not important," Dumbledore continued affably, which made Harry's frown double in ferocity. "I do not mean to pester, Mrs. Porpington, but a little bit more discretion would be most favourable in the future."

"But," Porpington continued uneasily, "Mr. Dumbledore...I haven't any idea of what you're speaking. It's mind boggling enough that the Ministry knew me through my favourite phrase. I don't see how my girls are of any concern–"

"I don't mean to interrupt, Mrs. Porpington," Harry's former headmaster began again gently.

Poppy, agitated, would have none of it. "You just did," she pointed out flatly.

"Yes. So sorry about that. Now that I'm in control of the conversation, however, I might as well make the most of it. There is somebody at my school who has been suddenly made aware of your daughters' existence, and he is very anxious to know whether or not they will avoid illegality long enough to enroll."

"Enroll?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"In your school?"

"It would be very difficult for me to enroll them in another school, for I am the headmaster of just one institution–"

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Dumbledore," Poppy said huffily. There was a few shuffling noises, and Harry grinned to imagine silly Poppy Porpington trying to argue with Albus Dumbledore. "But you must be mistaken. My girls are not...what you are."

"Hermione is," Dumbledore reminded her gently, giving the argument in a much kinder way than Harry wanted to use. "You should be aware, Mrs. Porpington," Dumbledore said calmly, "that there is animosity from both sides. I do not blame you for viewing me with some suspicion. Wizards are guilty of the same thing when it comes to muggles."

"I don't like that term," Poppy said, evidently through clenched teeth.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Muggles," Poppy repeated. "I don't like it. It implies stupidity."

"Mrs. Porpington," Headmaster Dumbledore again, with the same amount of surprise Harry was beginning to feel, "I meant no offense."

"My daughters," Poppy cut in, voice dangerously confident, "are not any different from myself. They will not go to your school. They will not leave me for seven years. They wouldn't want to leave me for seven years."

"Mrs. Porpington," Dumbledore began again, tone growing gentler.

It won't work, Harry wanted to advise him. He didn't precisely know why that coaxing, soothing timbre would simply ruffle Poppy's feathers even further, but he simply did. She wasn't one to be duped, especially when it came to those horrible creatures she called children.

"I assure you, the children go home many times–"

"They've a fine school in London," Poppy argued heatedly. More sounds ensued, this time closer to the door. "You needn't worry about any further indiscretion, Mr. Dumbledore. My girls have always been just fine, thank you very much."

When the door knob turned and Harry found himself face to face with an angry, watery eyed single mother, he did the only thing he could think of. He took her hand and led her down to Hermione.

What passed between the two, Harry never knew. He occasionally glanced at them from outside the window, where he stood with most of the men as they conversed about manly nonsense. Hermione and Poppy sat slightly away from the women, who were conversing about womanly nonsense, and, once in a while, Hermione nodded understandingly.

How on earth, Harry wanted to know, as Charlie made an inappropriate comment and both Hagrid and Arthur frowned at him, did Hermione already understand? She had only been a mother for little more than a week now. Poppy had been at it for nearly seven years, and, clearly, she still hadn't quite mastered the motherhood thing. What did the two have to say to each other?

Plenty, apparently, for it was up to Harry and Percy to go and retrieve a few items from Poppy's flat. The Porpingtons, he learned, were to spend the Christmas with them at the Burrow. And, if Harry dared to breathe a word of complaint, he would immediately be tossed out into the snow. Or so more than one female told him menacingly.

Christmas morning was beautiful. Hermione had slowly opened her eyes and sat up, surprised by the fragile silence cloaking the house. Thoughtfully, she glanced at her baby, and then out the hall, where Poppy and her three children had taken residence in Percy's room. The stillness would not last long.

Christmas Day was an exhausting affair. Later, when Hermione attempted to remember the exact details of the event, she feared her eyes would go cross eyed from confusion.

She did remember, however, a morning filled with great deal of joyous shouting.

Mr. Weasley as a convincing Father Christmas.

Nadine crying, inexplicably frightened by the sight of him.

Complimentary heroic novels, written by the twins.

So much food Crookshanks became ill from all the secretive treats given to him.

Many presents for Larry.

One present for Draco.

Fred's complaints of blindness after Hermione had thrown Draco's "present"–a piece of coal–in his eye.

Poppy's irritability.

Harry's irritability.

Mrs. Weasley's happy obliviousness.

"The children are so spoiled now," Poppy lamented quietly, sitting with Hermione on the couch. Much to the dismay of the men of the house hold, the television had been pushed away, so that the roaring fire was the only thing to see, leaving its occupants in comforting hues of orange and black. "And we've only been here a few days."

It took a few moments for Hermione to respond. The others had grown accustomed to this, for if Hermione Granger was not sitting in silent admiration for her son, she was sitting in silent agony for her son.

"He bites like a barracuda," Hermione complained with a wince as Lawrence Egan Granger finished his supper.

"You've let a barracuda do that you?" Harry asked cheekily, settling himself on the rug at their feet. In one hand, he carried three plates of biscuits. In the other, a very large glass of milk. All three were thankful that, at midnight, the children were fast asleep, for at the sight of Harry's gluttony, the triplets would have surely begged for more sweets.

"Kinky," he laughed. It was very normal of Harry to make such jokes, Hermione noticed, but when it came to the act itself–breast feeding, as it was–Harry was not jovial at all. Even at this moment, after two weeks of growing accustomed to it, his eyes did not fall anywhere near Hermione nor Hermione's exposed skin. It amused Hermione to no end, but, in light of the fact that he had overcome his dislike of the baby's geneology, the baby's grey eyes, and the baby's middle name in such a short time span, she did not tease him.

"You cannot possibly eat all of that," Poppy exclaimed, gesturing to Harry's midnight snack.

"Care to wager on that?"

"You can't gamble on Christmas," Hermione exclaimed indignantly. "Harry, really!"

Harry waved all reprimands aside, stuffing his face as he did so. Idly, he reached into his back pocket and handed Poppy a crumpled piece of parchment. "Happy Christmas," he said lazily.

"This is a letter to me!"

"Oh good, she can read," Harry drawled.

"You can't give me a letter addressed to myself and then call it a Christmas present," Poppy hissed.

"You didn't get me anything!"

"Yes I did!"

"Giving me a watch your daughters had stolen from me is not a gift. I say we're about even."

"If neither of you are going to read it, may I?" Hermione asked curiously, very bored by the pair's squabbling. Poppy had been ready to acquiesce when she noticed something else.

"You've already opened it?" she nearly screeched if not for the safety of Lawrence's ears.

"Hedwig brought it," Harry said defensively, miraculously already licking the crumbs off his first plate. "I thought it was for me."

"It's addressed to me," Poppy pointed out with narrow eyes.

"I wasn't wearing my glasses when I opened it," Harry lied with a shrug.

"You're appalling," the indignant woman declared. "I don't know the precise rules of wizard-letter opening, but surely it's wrong."

"If you're not going to read it," Harry interrupted impatiently, "allow me to inform you of the contents. You will be breaking tradition and decorum by being invited to Hogwarts."

Naturally, Harry expected some sort of strong reaction. Honour, perhaps, for she was the only muggle to have received such an invitation, at least to the best of his knowledge. Nervousness, maybe, for the famous educational institution was most likely intimidating to an average muggle. Excitement, definitely, for Harry could not think of another place that held so many fond memories.

He did not expect, of course, Poppy's actual reaction.

"Oh," was her mildly surprised, mildly confused response. She opened the letter and read it quickly. "That's nice. Pity I must work that day. Can you fetch me some paper, Harry, so that I may pen my refusal?"

"No you may not!" he protested instantly, sitting up and upsetting his second plate of cookies, which had been resting on his stomach.

"Well, of course I may not," Poppy replied calmly. "Not without paper."

For a moment, the four sat in contemplative silence. Hermione, fearing an awkward situation, gingerly arose from her seat to put Lawrence into the ancient, snug Weasley cradle. Harry sensed her intention and, to prevent any further argument with the mad woman, silently volunteered to take the babe up himself.

Once left alone, Hermione observed the fire logs wordlessly, all the while pondering her next choice of words. The fire was beginning to lessen, and occasionally, a flame weakened branch crackled and split, sending sparks onto the hearth.

"It is very kind of Dumbledore," Hermione began carefully, "to issue such an invitation." Swiftly, Hermione's eyes darted to the right, to gauge the woman's reaction.

Poppy remained unmoved and did not bother to look away from the amber glow. "It was not a letter from Dumbledore."

"But...Harry said–"

"Your friend is an idiot," Poppy cut in without emotion. "He did not see who had signed it."

Clearly, the milk woman was still very upset at the idea of parting with her abominable trio. Hermione understood, but only partially. As irrational as it was, the new mother tended to become very anxious if Lawrence was out of her sight for more than an hour. More likely than not, Hermione was certain that, within a half hour or so, her feet would fly up the stairs and into Ron's room, just to ensure that her son was sleeping peacefully.

But Poppy's children were not helpless infants. In fact, Hermione privately believed the girls were too clever for their own good. And Poppy experienced a separation every day the girls went to school. Hogwarts, Hermione thought, was the best school in the kingdom. Surely, Poppy would want the best possible education for her daughters.

If not for pride, of course. Hermione shook her head slightly. Who would have ever heard of a proud milk woman?

Delicately, Hermione reached out and unfolded the rough parchment. The name at the bottom was familiar to her, but, nevertheless, Hermione was mightily surprised to see it.

"He must be very anxious, then," she commented neutrally. Poppy nodded with a stony expression. "Poppy, you cannot blame Sir Nicholas for the asinine behaviour of his descendants. Accepting a friendship with him would not be accepting a friendship with your ex-husband, nor of your ex-in-laws."

"Oh bullocks, Hermione," Poppy snapped tiredly. "I've done well enough on my own, haven't I?"

"It's not charity, and it's not another Porpington. He'a simply Sir Nicholas," Hermione argued, now shifting to face her fully. "All he wants is to see the girls complete their rightful education."

"Their rightful education?" Poppy laughed with disbelief. "It's rightful, is it? To have them learn things so...so..." Poppy faltered, and tried again, losing some of her animosity. "All right, let's say I let them. What happens, Hermione? They get deeper and deeper into their–your world. Where does that leave me, Hermione? When they want to spend holidays with other wizards, or attend matches, or..." Here, Poppy swallowed, eyes distant. "Or settle in a place that only magical people know of? Where does that leave me?"

Hermione wanted to quell her friend's fears...but found that she could not. Had not Harry done the same thing to his own muggle family? Granted, that muggle family was not half as lovable as Poppy. But look how easily he had ensconced himself within the wizarding world, cutting all ties from the muggles whenever possible. It was possible, they both knew.

"It's not your choice to make, Poppy," Hermione said firmly. "Whether or not you wish it, your daughters have capabilities you have no way of controlling."

"I am their mother," Poppy stated coldly, and unfolded her legs to stand before Hermione. "It _is_ my choice to make."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest her frosty attitude when Poppy turned away suddenly, intending to march up the stairs. She sincerely hoped it was not to rouse the triplets from their slumber, and quit the abode in a fit of pride. But the original intention of such a dramatic exit was never known, for as soon as Poppy had taken the first step, the two ladies heard inconsiderately loud footsteps impeding her way. A confused Harry Potter tumbled down the stairs, closely followed by a disgruntled George and then a grim Percy Weasley.

Hermione did not like the look of this, not at all. She too stood, though her numb legs gave tickles at being awoken so abruptly. It was silly, she thought faintly, to be intimidated by Percy simply because he was older and was looking more disagreeable than usual. But the fact that George appeared so uneasy, and that Harry was observing the brothers with an odd expression, made Hermione's heart skip a beat.

"What is it? Is it Lawrence? Is he all right?"

Even before she finished the last word, Hermione had barreled through the boys, ready to scramble up the stairs, had not Percy caught her shoulder at the last second. Hermione did not process his reassuring gaze.

"You're right," she said breathlessly. "How stupid of me. I could have apparated. Let go, Percy–"

"Hermione, Larry's fine," Harry assured her, his own troubled gaze softening.

"Lawrence," the other four occupants corrected, shattering the tension.

Hermione smiled with relief, unable to say anything as her heart resumed its normal pace. Then Percy braced himself, squaring his shoulders. He was ridiculous, by Hermione's judgment. The new pyjamas she had given him for Christmas did nothing to improve his spindly appearance. In fact, fuzzy bunny pyjamas tended to have an unmanning effect.

Still, despite his silly attire, Percy was unexpectedly grave. "Harry. Hermione. I'd like to speak to the two of you."

Harry apparently shared Hermione's sense of fear for the usually pompous Weasley. "Er..." Harry looked to Hermione. Then he looked to Poppy, and found no pleasure in doing so. At last, he settled his green eyes on George, who was fidgeting as he stood between him and Percy. "Are you certain George shouldn't be present as well?"

"We've already spoken," George muttered, sending a half annoyed, half ashamed look to his elder brother.

And then it suddenly struck Hermione that, yes, Percy was George's elder brother. Of course, she was not an imbecile. She had known the chronological order of the Weasley offspring since...well, forever. But, for obvious reasons, it had never occurred to her that Percy was an older brother figure. It had never occurred to her that George would look at Percy with such a sulky, rebuked expression. Much like a chastised little boy would look at an annoyingly wiser sibling.

"Miss Porpington," George suddenly sighed with a brighter expression, "might I persuade you to take a stroll out to the pond?"

Poppy, confused by the sudden shift of moods, only dubiously scanned George's apparel.

"It's very windy," Poppy said uncertainly, obviously in no mood for further company. George glanced down at his own pyjamas, apparently indifferent to the fact that his were identical to Percy's–Hermione, after all, had been rather busy with other affairs to think of creative presents.

"The bunnies will keep me warm," he said with a smile. "And, if not, we shall keep each other warm."

"George," Percy rebuked, before Hermione could protest and Harry could scoff. "I said distract her, not disgust her."

"Well, that was subtle," Poppy said apprehensively. "But, obviously, something must be said in private. No pranks, now, Mr. Weasley," she warned as George accio-ed their coats. The muggle gave one last glance at the three before leaving the room, her hand tugged doggedly along by George's.

With the exception of the occasional pop of the fireplace, silence resumed until Hermione cleared her throat. "I'd like to go see Lawrence now."

"Larry's fine," Harry hastened to reassure her, but stopped short. "Oh all right. C'mon, Perce, let's take this up to Ron's room, or Hermione'll explode."

"There'll be brown curls everywhere," Percy agreed, and, for a moment, the younger two paused, utterly bewildered by the thought of Percy Weasley making a joke. The young man paid no attention to their astonishment, and simply turned and walked up the stairs, not bothering to see if they followed.

It was silly, Hermione guessed, to feel relieved at the sight of slumbering baby Lawrence as soon as she entered. After all, they had told her that he was fine. Hopefully, this perpetual paranoia would ease with time.

Percy had not lit any of the lamps, so that all that assisted the three as they walked around the presents and furniture was the moonlight. Hermione nearly tripped over Neville's rather premature gift, which was a pair of yellow wellies. Harry entered last, and, instead of sitting on the bed beside Percy and Hermione, opted to lean against the wall opposite, so that the cradle sat between them.

"We've changed the sheets, Harry," Hermione reminded him.

"And yet the mucus memory remains," Harry responded lightly. He crossed his arms and gave Percy an impatient look. "What is it then? What's gotten George so wound up?"

Hermione leaned back from the cradle's edge, and turned to Percy as well. "Yes, what is it Percy?"

Percy met their gazes without a hint of happiness. There was not a hint of unhappiness, either. In fact, the Weasley's face was strangely emotionless, making them nervous once more. It was as if they had regressed into student and prefect once more, and Percy was thinking of a suitable punishment for some unknown crime.

Then he frowned, and Hermione and Harry were more at ease.

"If you fail, don't tell us," Percy said in a hard voice, and without preamble. Hermione could only blink as Harry uncrossed his arms and stepped forward in surprise.

"I–what?"

"Don't even tell us when you plan to do it," Percy added seriously. "I don't want to know. George almost told me, but I'd rather not hear it . I'd rather not sit around and wait, wondering if you'll fail."

Hermione knew it to be not quite a lie, but not quite the truth either. Still, something desperate and yearning inside her pressed her to say, "We won't."

The corner of Percy's lips quirked up slightly, in something that would have been called a smile if not for the lack of warmth in it. "I never knew somebody as level headed as you could be so optimistic," he said quietly. He did not look at her as he said it. Nor did he face Harry when he addressed him. The brother's eyes remained on the baby, though, obviously, not focusing on him.

"I was going to say that, if there is any doubt of failure, do not attempt at all. A stupid suggestion, really, as my conversation with George has taught me. Obviously, you three are determined to at least try. I can't–I can't say that I support it. And I cannot say that I disapprove, as Fred does. But...I just wish..."

Percy stopped then, for which Hermione was eternally grateful. The way his tone was softening and the way his mouth was twisting...as immature as it was, Hermione did not want to witness an emotional Percy moment. She liked the thought of him as a stuffy, no-nonsense, sanctimonious stick in the mud. The image was much more easier to swallow than the Percy of here and now.

The Weasley rose, and quickly made his way to the door. "Be more discreet please," he said over his shoulder, familiar reproof thick in his tone. "I already had some idea something was planned before Fred came and revealed the whole scheme to me. I should hate to hear that mum had learned something of it."

And with that, he opened and then shut the door. Five seconds after that resounding click, Harry spoke to himself softly.

"Fuck."

"Harry," Hermione hissed, and pointed to her slumbering infant. Harry shrugged, reminding her that Larry was sleeping.

"Lawrence," she corrected. Then she shook her head. "It's so easy to forget how intelligent he is."

"Yes," he agreed, walking about the room. "When one thinks of an ass, one does not generally associate intellect with it."

Hermione grinned, and hoped that her child did not learn profanity through osmosis. "Can you believe that Fred went to him for advice?"

"Weather reports have been hinting at record lows in hell," Harry responded idly, and crossed the room to peer out the window.

"He must be extremely troubled," Hermione then fretted, her amusement evaporated. "To have gone to Percy. Percy, of all people, and not Bill or Charlie."

"Oh, that's reasonable, enough," Harry commented. "Percy's closest in age, after all, besides George. And with Bill and Charlie being so far ahead, I reckon Percy's the most older brother-y influence the twins have ever had. That Ron and Ginny have ever had, come to think of it. I can't really picture the twins doing much of that brotherly thing."

"Still...I wonder why I was included in the conversation. Surely George would have informed him that I was being of no assistance in whatever scheme you've concocted."

"But in the actual event," Harry corrected, turning away from the window, "You're vital."

Hermione's lips tightened in a reluctantly agreeing smile. "Yes, of course."

Her best friend relaxed considerably. "Besides, I think I know what motivated Fred to tattle."

"Fred was not tattling, Harry–"

"I think he saw Percy's secret stash under his bed. Bet he was feeling rather guilty about keeping a secret like that."

"Secret stash of what? Wait...do I want to know the answer?"

"Perv," Harry accused with a wide smile, which lessened when he clarified. "Gifts, actually. For some reason beyond understanding, Percy has purchased a Christmas present for Ron for both this year and last year. Mad, really, considering how unemployed he's been."

"I don't think it's mad at all." Hermione's voice was soft and wistful. "I think it's rather sweet."

"Women," Harry laughed with a roll of his eyes. Hermione put a finger to her lips in a shushing motion, which Harry ignored. "Come here, Hermione. There's a lovely moon out tonight."

"If not for your identity, I would have suspected you of romantic ulterior motives," she teased, and tip toed to stand beside him.

The moon, enormous and bright, was indeed lovely. If not for the invisible hands of gales pulling and tearing at the landscape, it would have been an admirable Christmas night.

"They're nutters, for staying out so long," Harry muttered, with a nod to the pair sliding haphazardly on the small, frozen pond.

Hermione offered no opinion, though she did worry for their health and the onset of hypothermia. Still, it was good to see Poppy laughing so easily as George attempted a pirouette on the ice. Harry must have sensed her discontent with that quarter, for he turned to her with a distinctly irked expression.

"She's being abominably selfish," Harry said, timbre a touch frosty. "If it were up to me, we'd put the girls in Sir Nicholas' care."

"And then you'd become like Sir Nicholas," Hermione said reasonably. "For Poppy would surely kill you."

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on the window sill. "It's so strange. I never considered Sir Nicholas reproducing while he was alive. He just seems to do so well as a bachelor."

"Just because one is not married does not mean one does not reproduce," Hermione reminded him primly. Harry gave an impish grin and said nothing. After a few minutes, he reached into his pocket and pulled out something Hermione had long forgotten. "Harry, we mustn't."

"Why not? I'm bored."

"Boredom is not a good reason to listen upon private conversation."

"It's a good enough reason to open somebody else's mail," Harry rationalized, and, with his wand, moved the flesh colored string so that it slithered silently out the window and along the grass. Within a few moments, it was close enough to eavesdrop.

Hermione, finding that reason would not work, attempted to snatch the devious device from Harry's hand. He dodged. She pinched his arm. He pinched back. She yelped and awoke the baby, leaving Harry in peace with his mischief.

"Stop it, stop it," she told him sternly, while she jiggled Lawrence over her shoulder.

Harry gave a supremely superior smile and continued to listen to the conversation. He gave several exaggerated faces; disgust, happiness, anger...until, just as he planned, Hermione was too curious to condemn him any further.

"Oh, give it here," she sighed in exasperation.

The conversation was not as dramatic as Harry had led her to believe. Boys, when forced into conversation, tended to ramble about their favourite things. George was no exception.

"You'll want to dog ear chapter five. That's where I save the day."

"But you said that you saved the day at the end of chapter three?" Poppy said, her shaky voice matching her shaky legs.

"Good god, George needs to pull her," Harry muttered to himself, forgetting Hermione was quite within hearing range. He then ignored the upbraiding strike to his bicep. "She may be the only woman in the realm who can stand him talking about himself."

"At least somebody shows her some respect," Hermione hinted stiffly, and watched as Poppy landed on her bum. True to form, George nearly pointed and laughed before remembering himself. He pulled Poppy to her feet first, and then pointed and laughed.

"If she deserves respect," Harry said bitterly, "she'd get it. If Mrs. Weasley knew what we knew..."

"And she won't," Hermione said quickly. She pulled the listening device away from both their ears. "And you're to pretend that you don't either." Everything Poppy had told her had been in strictest of confidence. But, Harry argued whenever he sensed secrets afoot, that "don't tell anybody" rule held a loophole for best friends.

They observed the specimens like secretive wild-life show hosts, Harry occasionally narrating with obscene interpretations of their movements. According to impromptu specialist, George tossing snow at Poppy's head held a special meaning of "wishing to toss" something else. Hermione elbowed Harry so hard he wheezed, and concealed his injury by choosing to coo at the indifferent Larry Granger.

While he amused himself with her child, Hermione idly picked up the ears once more.

"This is all hearsay, mind you," George said insouciantly as Poppy shook the snow from her hair. "But mum swears it's true."

"All right, I believe you," Poppy assured him distractedly. "Go on."

"Well, mind you, we were very young. And we didn't even know what babies were, much less that our mother could produce them. But she was going to, because the stork was so fond of her. Or so Bill explained."

Poppy laughed appreciatively and continued her sliding, arm tucked into George's own. They made a ridiculous sight, Hermione thought, for the pond, at best, was seven yards in diameter. "Mum says she was very nervous about telling the last three most of all."

"Because you had been the babies for so long."

"No...I don't think that was it," George contradicted after some thought. "I figured it was because she hated the thought of going into labour and spending precious time away for us. But, even at two, we were generous to a fault. We gave mum permission to go on and have her baby."

"Lovely of you."

"Yes. Fred was set against it, so I was forced to–"

"George?"

"Yes, Poppy?"

"You were two. You cannot possibly remember all of this."

"Need I remind you that we were–are the most mentally advanced of the Weasley clan. I assure you, I remember what wondrous things I had done before I reached my first birthday."

"Formed a statistic table of how many times you've made your mother cry?"

"Tears of joy, Poppy, tears of joy. Now, do not interrupt, or I shall break the ice and drown you in the waist high muck."

"Not another word, I promise."

"As I was saying, Fred was against a new addition. Who could blame him? After all, now that mum had us, there was no hope of further improvement. Ahem." Poppy had opened her mouth to emit some sort of insult, and George stared pointedly down at her. "So mum took us to Godric's Hollow. We had a nice little picnic, just the four of us. By the time we found Fred climbing up some one's lattice, we were quite ready to accept anything into the family, be it a baby or a dragon."

"All of this you remember when you were two?"

"Mum helped fill in the blanks," George admitted. "She says she would write a book of all our antics, but then she says that nobody would believe such outrageous nonfiction. Now Percy..." He gave a shrug. "Percy did not want Ron, with more vehemence and more official words than Fred had. He made very solid arguments, unlike Fred, who reportedly screamed 'Lotchy ifshum' whenever dad mentioned the new arrival. Percy said that it would smell–which Ron did. Percy said that it would cry–which Ron did. Percy said that it would–hell! Percy was a regular Seer as a child!"

"A what?"

"Never mind. The point is, in the stuffy, small, noisy house, mum would have never had convinced Percy that Ron's coming was a good thing. But, in Godric's Hollow, he was happy. He was happy and he was okay with the world, and when mum asked how he would like a little sister–mum wasn't too gifted with divination, you know–Perce finally said all right. You have to step back, you know, sometimes, to see what you need. To see what's best. Because when you're pressed up against a girl, all you see is her eyes. Not the lovely, rounded, perky rest of her."

"That's a rather sick version of the standard 'moral of the story.'" Poppy said with a sigh. She then stopped, placed her foot immediately before George's, and sent the boy tumbling head first into the snow bank. "Surely you can do better?"

George, instead of rising, only twisted so that he rested on his elbows on the damp ground. "You are welcome to search me for another platitude."

"George."

Hermione grinned. She wondered if she would grow that motherly power of infusing an unimaginable threat into one name–quite unaware that, after years of silly boys, she already had.

"Due to my espionage prowess, I have learned of estrangement from the Porpington clan–"

"Hermione told you?" Poppy gasped.

"What? No. Harry did."

Hermione dropped the device and threw her slipper at Harry. His hand flew to hold his injured forehead, looking at her with blank innocence. "It'd be funny, wouldn't it, if I got a slipper shaped scar?"

"You told George!"

"Told him what?"

"What you swore you wouldn't tell after I told you!"

"Well...sorry, there is no excuse. You know those silences in the lift? Of course you do. It was just so awkward, and there was hardly any room in the damn phone booth, so a chap has to say something, you know, to divert attention away from the undue closeness."

"So you broke your promise to me?"

"To be fair, you broke your promise to Poppy first. Cast the first stone and all that."

Hermione, unable to argue, settled for sending him a grilling glare before resuming her observation. Harry left Larry in peace and joined her.

"...fireflies in the distance?"

"How ignorant of you," George said pleasantly. "Those are the press. See? Already stopped. It's only me, they've learned, so the photographs will not be important. Now, if it were Harry..."

"What a waste of film," Poppy sighed, hugging herself.

"I believe you are too hard on him, Mrs. Porpington. It is not as if he is undeserving of attention. He has saved the world, you know."

"Oh, I know. Hermione told me." Harry turned and sent a pointed look at his best friend.

"I told you I didn't want her to know."

"And why is that?" Hermione asked archly.

"Because then she'd be all...all..." Harry's theory had been that, after learning of his heroic past, Poppy would become contrite and annoyingly grateful in her behaviour towards him. The fact that she had known and still continued to treat him so...normally was a bit of an injury, now that he thought about it. "Forget it," he muttered.

George looked into the distance once more, saw that, truly, no more covert photographers were scuttling in the distance, and dropped his gaze to an interesting thing in the ground...

"We must develop a sort of listening device with chameleon traits," Harry decided after George curiously picked up his end of the line.

"What is that?" Poppy asked.

"A worm," George said absently, and tugged. Hermione let go, but Harry stubbornly clung to his end, for the silly reason of "winning."

"It's a very long worm," Poppy commented suspiciously.

"Hmm, yes. Can we go in now, or are you three discussing world domination?" George said to the worm. He turned to the window, and saw Hermione wave them in. "We could have sat in a different room, you know, while you three conversed. There was no reason for Perce to banish me outdoors."

"Please," Poppy scoffed as they entered the house. Harry had won the tug-of-war, for George could only stay outside so long before fearing frostbite. "If you were not going to eavesdrop, I certainly would have."

"Eavesdropping is wrong," Hermione reminded them all. She had arrived on the bottom floor as soon as they entered, and joined them at the fireplace. Harry arrived a few minutes later, Larry in his arms. Thus they ended Christmas in the same manner as it began; silently.

xoxox

"Did you ever find those owls?" Harry asked the pair lazily.

They were having tea. Neville, Seamus, and George rather liked Harry's version of tea. He had more than a fair share of leather recliner chairs. When the Ministry workers surprised the other two around three thirty on the tenth day of the year, Harry had invited them in and promptly offered bottles of beer.

"No, and to hell with them," Neville said sourly. "Imagine! Us! _Us! _Me, who found Malfoy's island, and Seamus, who...well, Seamus. Looking for lost owls? Grandmother was most displeased."

"It has been windy," George commented helpfully.

It was an understatement. Charlie had a hell of a time catching Pig after the animal had been blown away as he slept on the window sill. The poor thing had been tossed in the air like a fallen leaf until, bored with the sight of a bunch of boys fly after it like a prized snitch, Hedwig had decided to swoop in and help.

George and Harry exchanged a look before Harry plied the two with more refreshment. When, after two game shows, it was decided it really was high time to end social hour, Harry walked them to the door. He retained their company for a moment, glancing at the threatening grey clouds with interest. The days had been decidedly depressing of late.

"If anybody should ask...you were here with George."

"But we _were _here with George," said Neville with a baffled frown.

Seamus elbowed him. "Of course. Just George, eh?"

"Yes. He's house sitting."

"Naturally," Seamus nodded. "Since you are not home, someone must keep an eye on Number Twelve."

Neville finally latched onto the unspoken conversation, and he furrowed his brow. "Should the Ministry ask...?"

"Especially if the Ministry should ask," Harry said firmly. Oh, he had been, aware, of course, that it would have been infinitely easier to avoid this conversation if he had simply disappeared when the friends had shown up, and allowed George to play the part of house sitter. But, when he had seen Neville's harmless face as they waited for the door to open, Harry decided it was of no danger to trust them. They were his friends and house mates. Of course they could be trusted.

Neville sighed, as if he had witnessed shenanigans and was unable to report them, and nodded with a shrug. "Of course. Where are you, by the way, Harry?"

"Oh, I expect you'll know soon enough. I expect I'll see you..." Harry's eyes slid mischievously to Seamus', who was glancing around with disinterest. Potter had to smile. Just like that. Seamus was asked by a friend to break protocol, and, just like that, Seamus decided to do so, without any of the worry Neville nobly experienced. If not for the fact that Harry knew the caliber of Seamus' friends, he would have worried that such a man was working for the Ministry.

Others required _persuasion _to break the rules.

"I expect I'll see you at your engagement party, Seamus?"

Seamus snapped to attention. "I beg your pardon?"

Harry, sensing a bit of fun to be had, leaned against the door. He had no fear of reporters, for nobody bothered to check Number Twelve these days, believing he still resided at the Burrow. "Don't you know? Luna has been asking Hermione for colour scheme ideas. They settled on green, you know, in appreciation of you."

"Colour scheme?" Seamus repeated. He turned to Neville, as if his friend could stop the horror. But Neville, after catching Harry's smile, only smiled vapidly.

"That's nice of her," Neville added helpfully.

"But I haven't yet proposed! That is, I don't mean to!"

"You don't mean to?" Harry repeated, aghast. "But she'll be gutted!"

"Are you sure you haven't said anything, to make her believe it?" Neville inquired, all innocence.

Seamus rubbed the back of his neck, as if the decaying breath of Matrimony was breathing down it. "I told her I needed new shoes," he offered in befuddlement. Neville tsk, tsked, and Harry shook his head. "What? That means nothing!"

"To a Lovegood?" Harry scoffed. "You could show Luna or her father a pile of cow manure, and they'd be convinced the world was covered with shitty volcanoes. Their minds do not follow a rational path, you know. When you said 'new shoes,' she most likely heard 'a young wife.'"

The bedevilment was complete when Neville clasped Seamus' shoulder and said comfortingly, "You're doomed."

It took only two seconds for Seamus to react.

Neville turned to Harry for further instruction.

"You'd best go and get him," Harry said, watching their friend fly away with a disturbing lack of coordination. "Offer to look for wedding robes or something nice like that."

"Good to see you Harry...er, not see you. Give Hermione my regards."

Harry nodded and closed the door. When he discovered the whereabouts of his house sitter, the guest had finished what was left of his pantry.

"It took you eternity," George commented. "You mustn't submit to young men's urges on the first calling you know," he continued with a sniff. "Why buy the cow when you're giving the milk–"

"Shut up, you bloody sow," Harry grinned, and scavenged for any remnants of nourishment. He didn't understand it. When he lived with Hermione, it was no so difficult to keep food around. Now, with only occasional male visitors, food was as scarce as Death Eaters.

He then wondered when he would be able to forward those regards of Neville's. After Christmas, Harry had moved out as soon as possible, and only returned to keep Hermione company on New Year's Eve. Most of the boys had wrangled invitations to one event or other, and the twins were off promoting their book. Much to their disgust, the brothers' sister had elected to spend New Year's Eve and Day with Oliver and his family. Knowing that Hermione would not have liked to spend the holiday with the elderly as if she had one foot in the grave, he had dropped by without warning and taught Larry valuable lessons of life for hours.

She had sent him off before he could explain the relations of men, women, bird, and bees, preferring sleep to his prattling. He had not seen her since then. Any time he had half a mind to send a letter and scold her neglect, he would remember that she had a baby now.

It was such a convenient excuse, he lamented to himself presently. She had gotten everybody the same present. And why? The baby. She had ruined his sleeping patterns. Why? The baby. She said he wasn't allowed to swear any more. Why? The baby. The earth's ice caps were melting. Why? The baby.

Well, perhaps he was shouldering too much blame on the child, for it wasn't the titchy monster's fault his mother was a horrible best friend. Hermione was supposed to be there for him and make sure that he ate, and make sure George didn't eat too much, and make sure that he did his laundry, and make sure that...

Somebody cleared his throat behind him. Harry winced.

Make sure annoying arsey professors didn't come and say arsey things.

For that was what he expected from Remus Lupin these days. A bunch of stupid words that had no relevance to Harry's life whatsoever. This unexpected visit did not disappoint him.

Though...oh all right, the complete reconstruction of Number Twelve wasn't so bad. Remus hadn't been cruel enough to install the walls Harry and the Weasleys had ingeniously removed. And, in the kitchen, where Kreecher's horrible little nest used to sit, there was even more room for food–though food itself was mightily scarce. In general, there was more light and less grotesqueness, but that did not mean Harry had to be grateful about it.

Even before Harry turned around, he spoke. "Hermione has had her child."

Harry blinked. "I told you that thing wasn't a doll," he said to George.

Remus pursed his lips and ignored the boyish chuckles. He continued determinedly. "In light of this fact, somebody must be the Potions professor."

Harry relaxed, for there was no feasible idea of having him substitute. Just the other day, he had accidentally–or so he swore–mixed salt into Fred's tea. Heaven knew what sort of trouble should he be appointed to teach students.

George, who had been sitting on the table, cleared his throat, stood, and then brushed off his shoulders. "Tis an honour, professor, truly it is. Naturally, it will be difficult to squeeze in potion lessons in between book signings, store business, and fangirl-loving, but I will do my duty and pass on my knowledge to the future generations–"

"I will have to overtake Hermione's position." Remus continued impatiently. George deflated and sat back down on the table with a sulky expression, not bothering to listen to the rest of Remus' explanation. "But then there is no Defense against the Dark Arts professor."

"Such a mouthful," George noticed.

"Yes," Harry agreed, for he did not like this line of conversation. For one could not lie and say that Harry Potter had no experience against anything dark and artsy. "Say dada, Lupin."

Lupin appeared aghast. "No."

"Oh come now," Harry cajoled. "You've never called it dada?"

"No! In my day, we had time to say the entire title of a course!"

"In your day, magic was recently invented," Harry retorted.

"Do you know," George began with a randomness Harry was beginning to love. "I've always wanted to say something to you, Remus."

The man in question gave a tired sigh. Idly, Harry wondered why adults were always giving that sigh whenever they were in one of the twins' presence. "Yes?" said Remus with a pitiful air of resignation.

"Do you realise that, with just one letter, your name would be tragically wrong for your condition?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I mean, it was really lucky, wasn't it, that you happened to be name Lupin and that you became what you are?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it good fortune," Remus drawled.

"But suppose you were one letter off? Suppose you were Remus Lapin? Then what? The bunny-man wolf demon?"

Remus was at a loss for words, for George Weasley was entirely serious about the matter. Harry had no words to offer as well, and only chuckled behind his hand at Remus' dumbfounded expression.

"Or!" George began again brightly. "Suppose it was fate? Suppose that, _because _you were named Lupin, you were meant to become a werewolf. Think of it! Should your family name be Lapin, you'd transform into a fluffy, little Peter Rabbit every month!"

It took some time for Remus to respond. Actually, it took some time for Remus to make a facial movement. It was fortunate that the length of time Remus spent recovering was the same amount of time Harry finished his laughter.

"George Weasley," Remus began uneasily.

"Yes?"

"If we were to require a Professor for the Betise, you would be the first man to come to mind."

"Really? Oh thank you."

"George?"

"Yes, Remus?"

"Go away."

George was taken aback by the pleasant rudeness, and only turned to Harry with a mutinous expression. Harry was half inclined to defend his friend's right of presence, and encourage him to stay, when his stomach rumbled, and gave a very good reason for George Weasley to shove off.

"Good bye George," Harry said cheerfully. George pouted, declared he did not want to stay in the dusty hell hole any way, and then took the last of Harry's marmalade before vanishing.

"God damn!" Harry exclaimed. "That was my supper! Shit!" Harry began to scramble around the various pantries for something edible, and even hazarded to check the uncleaned pots left on the stove by Ginny the last time she visited.

"If you're going to be teaching students, you must curb your swearing," Remus advised as Harry stifled the urge to gag at the horrendous smell. How was it that something that was so delicious five days ago was now toxic to the lungs?

"I'm not going to teach students," Harry argued in between coughs.

"Hermione highly recommends you."

"Hermione has a want of good judgment lately," Harry said meaningfully as Remus sat opposite him at the table.

"Get over it, Harry. Perhaps you're not fit to be a professor, if you're so childish as to hold grudges."

"Wow, Remus. You're a regular wizard when it comes to reverse psychology. Here, let me give it a try. You're not good enough to leave my home and leave me alone. How was that?"

Harry grinned to see Remus' left eye twitching slightly. And was that a vein popping from his neck? "Do you know what? This time I mean it. I don't want you to teach Defense Against–"

"Dada," Harry said flatly.

"Especially if you're going to call it that," Remus said, annoyance peaking. "I'll get Neville to do it or something. He was always a pleasant student."

"Have Neville teach dada? Tell me, do you have a particular grudge against your students?"

"It's better than have you teach them," Remus snapped. "I could just see it. My polite, emotionally balanced pupils suddenly transform into world weary, self important, and unkempt pricks within a few days."

Harry reviewed the insult very carefully. Then he glanced down at himself. "Unkempt?" he repeated, highly offended.

Remus threw his hands up in exasperation–adults always did that too, Harry noticed–and arose to find something to drink. Harry idly showed him the beers, but Remus refused with a roll of his eyes.

"Are you quite done yet, Harry?" Remus asked as he fixed a pot of tea.

"With...?"

"This phase. Everybody's quite tired of it."

"What phase?"

"This 'The world is going on in its merry, ignorant way because of all my tired efforts, so excuse me while I sulk about the past and brood about the future' sort of phase."

Harry propped his head up with an elbow as he stared at his old friend. "Rolls right off the tongue, doesn't it?" he said with an empty sort of mirth, and avoided the question.

"Yes. Come up with an acronym for that and I'll double your wages."

Harry lost the tiniest artifices of his smile, and only gazed at Remus with such an emptiness that it was frightening. Lupin caught it and found he did not want to see that apathy existing in such familiar green eyes, and pretended that staring helped water boil faster.

"You're not going to pay me wages, Remus. You're not going to make me teach. Trust me. You don't want me to teach."

There was a chilling, alienating note in Harry's voice that Remus Lupin had never heard before. He was quite certain Harry did not deliberately place it there, and was also quite certain that Harry was not aware of it. It was too dead to be self deprecating, to decisive to be self-doubting. Harry knew something that he had done would not be good for younger, worshiping children to know, something that he did not want to confide in Remus.

"Why?" Remus asked softly, not expecting an answer.

Potter, for some reason–perhaps post adolescence immaturity–took that tender tone as offensive. Behind the glasses, his eyes hardened into a defiant gaze, and without another word, Harry stood and strode to Remus so menacingly that the professor half feared a brawl would ensue.

In fact, he was reaching for his wand when Harry pulled up his sleeve.

And then he reached for his wand any way.

Harry gave another, horrible laugh. "What, Remus? Are you going to magic away the scar?"

"You call it a scar," Remus murmured in fascination, grabbing Harry's arm and turning it this way and that way, as if unable to believe the mark to be genuine. "Not a tattoo."

"So thrilled that old age hasn't affected your hearing."

"When did you get this?" Remus demanded.

"Does it matter?" Harry parried coldly, roughly yanking his arm away from the older man's grip. "The point is, I have it. There. Do you still want the great Harry Potter to teach your precious fledglings?"

"Harry," Remus rebuked, "why did you get it? Why didn't you tell me? Have you told Dumbledore? Harry, don't smile like that–"

"God, if you could just hear yourself–"

"It's not a fucking joke," Remus slashed through Harry's chuckles angrily. "Why the hell do you do that, laugh and smile and make stupid jokes when everybody else is living? Do you think you help anybody, do you, when you pop in occasionally, and be charming and witty, and then come back here to stave off adulthood? Now you tell me where you got this damn tattoo, Harry James Potter, or I will thrash you _so hard_, you will–"

"All right!" Harry roared, scrambling away. "All right! The original artist himself, okay? Fuck, Remus, you're scaring me!"

"What the hell does that mean, original artist?"

"Tom Riddle, all right? The final battle, we sort of came to an agreement–"

"You entered an agreement with Voldemort?"

"No, with Riddle! Jesus, Remus, if you're going to demand an explanation like a jealous housewife, at least hear me out, for chrissake!"

The rising tension was suddenly shattered by the piercing whistle of the tea kettle, and both males turned toward the stove as if a spaceship had landed there. With mechanic movements, Remus set about preparing the tea, with an almost bewildered expression on his face.

"Good god, Harry," he muttered as Harry searched for clean tea cups. "You're the only one who gets me angry enough to yell like that."

"Feel the love," Harry muttered with a wry smile.

"Do you ever stop being a wise ass?" Remus demanded.

"Well, yes," Harry answered with some thought, "but I don't want to die just so you can stop feeling stupid–"

"Shut up. Tell me what happened, or I will kill you."

Despite having resumed his usually calm expression, Harry instinctively felt that the threat was quite serious, and casually retold the story of the strange decisive combat that decided the fate of the free world. All the while, Remus was not quite as subtle as Hermione, and constantly stared at the exposed tattoo as if wishing to burn the offensive mark off with his eyes.

Harry mentally sighed. Why was his life plagued with randomly explosive conversations?

"Right," Remus said, setting down his tea cup with more force than delicate china merited. "You're working at Hogwarts, Harry."

"Hogwarts Harry?" he repeated with surprise. "You're renaming the school to bribe me?"

"Bribery? Don't be absurd. Employing educators does not require such shady tactics. No, Harry, you're going to work at Hogwarts because I'm going to tell Dumbledore, and he will agree that somebody like you will need close supervision."

"What?"

"You must admit, Harry, even you do not know what will happen should the power you've acquired decides to resurface. It's best that–"

"It's best that I'm surrounded by children who do not know how to defend themselves from a turnip when this evil power does supposedly resurface?"

"It's best that you are surrounded by professors who do know how to defend everybody," Remus advised sternly.

Harry simply stared, going pale. He tried to speak, but found all arguments withered in the face of Remus Lupin and Remus Lupin's damningly correct logic.

"Oh god, you're going to chain me in The Shrieking Shack, aren't you?"

But Remus did not respond to Harry's desperate little joke.

Harry began to fidget, suddenly coming to the horrifying realisation that it was very possible he was being forced to do something he did not want to do. The idea was inconceivable. Nobody had forced him to do anything in...well, he couldn't even remember. Hermione would scold, Mrs. Weasley would hint, but nobody really made him do anything. He had become allergic to duress in his childhood; he did not want the rash to return.

"Um...no?" he tried pathetically.

It was galling how that man smiled. If Harry didn't love him as much as he loved Sirius, Remus Lupin would have been a dead man.

"Well," Harry tried again, unconsciously puffing out his chest in an futile effort to regain control of the conversation.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid to show him the scar! _Harry berated himself silently. _Now _that_ had been a wonderful case of reverse psychology. _Harry frowned. _Shut up_, he told himself crankily. Maybe a Sarcastic Harry Potter was an Annoying Harry Potter, like all these people claimed.

"Well," he said again, "I will only teach at your school if you allow me one favour."

Remus, one eyebrow arched to show his ill-concealed amusement, only nodded with faint interest.

xoxox

"The Bahamas!" Hermione screeched.

Hermione Jane Granger was angry. No, scratch that. She was livid. No, worse, she was incensed.

Then, in the middle of the worn rug, she paused. Was livid angrier than incensed? Or were they on the same level of anger? Either way, she was all three.

The winds had died down, an event which should have left the Burrow standing in sunny, silent peace. Most of the children had returned to their jobs–even Percy, who had found an occupation of which nobody could remember the names nor the details–and Molly and Hermione were left with enough husbandry to fill their hearts' content.

That was the original plan, at least. Any silence and housework to be had was dismissed as soon as Hermione sat down to breakfast and reached for her many parcels, delivered by an exhausted Pig. The twins had been kind enough to send her a few choice articles that were "somewhat interesting."

In her hands, she clenched two society journals, three tabloids, and one credible newspaper, four of which were wizard sources, and two of which were purely of muggle interests.

Mrs. Weasley, too busy counting Lawrence's toes with an air of delighted exuberance, paid Hermione the minimum amount of attention.

"Lovely place," she commented lightly, and pretended to bite the baby's thumb. Lawrence squealed with delight and attempted to pinch off Molly's nose.

"How could he not tell me? How could she not tell me? I am the reason they know each other! Without me, she'd be...and he'd...The Bahamas!"

She had always suspected, very vaguely, that Poppy had some sort of upper crust back ground, judging by her accent, out of season designer clothes, and strange mentions of chauffeurs and posh soirees. But Hermione never knew that Poppy Porpington, née Goldenforth, was of the elite; the type that lolled about and did nothing. Being a sensible, hard working girl, Hermione originally believed that such people had faded into extinction.

Somewhere down the road, Sir Nicholas' descendants had acquired a duchy, and since that blessed event, the family and those associated with that family had been mentioned in the society papers at least once a year.

"Poppy never mentioned that!" Hermione fumed.

And Harry never mentioned that he had overcome his initial dislike for the woman!

"I cannot believe they would be so inconsiderate to leave! No note, flats empty...and so soon! So soon to the date of–"

Hermione paused, unsure what to call the mysterious ceremony, especially in Mrs. Weasley's presence.

What happened to that plan, after all, the one that Harry had woven with George? Did they give up? Had Harry seen the impossibility of capturing Draco, and opted to take a tropical holiday instead?

Mrs. Weasley paused in her coddling, and settled Lawrence back into his stroller. It was one of those fancy things that Molly dared not to touch, for when Harry decided that Lawrence needed a baby carriage, and not the antique perambulator that had been the transportation of many a Weasley babe, he had proceeded to send over the most confusing and most versatile contraption ever made. With some tricky techniques, it also became a cradle, a car seat, and, Harry had reckoned, an airplane.

"It is all right," Molly assured her tenderly. "You needn't say it."

Hermione, who had been staring out into the blue sky and cursing whichever part of it covered her scurrilous friends, now faced Mrs. Weasley again with a puzzled expression. She was on the verge of asking what the elder woman meant by that when, abruptly, she snapped her mouth shut.

Of course. What Hermione considered to be a day of mysterious apprehension, Mrs. Weasley considered to be a day of mourning remembrance.

The date was only four days from now. Four days. And not a word from George nor Harry. The former always claimed to be extremely busy whenever she owled him, and the latter had the gall to run off with a muggle without telling her.

"What did Mr. Weasley have to say about this? Does he know?" Hermione demanded, resuming her pacing once more.

"I doubt it, as the news has just broken. But, if he did know, I would suppose that he would be grateful. The reporters have already deserted our town."

"Every town in the kingdom, no doubt," Hermione muttered darkly. "Oh! Just wait till I get my hands on him! He's the godfather of my child! Suppose I wanted to take a tropical holiday, hmm? Suppose we all did? The baby would have to stay with his godfather, and lo and behold, he is not present because he is being an irresponsible little–"

"I wonder," Molly interrupted distractedly, "I wonder if he took the pots and pans."

Hermione frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"A few days ago, Ginny took some pots and pans to cook something for the boys when they had their little slumber party–"

"I would hardly call a group of males becoming too smashed to apparate, thus falling asleep where they could, a 'slumber party.'"

"Well, when they were ill," Mrs. Weasley amended. "Ginny was kind enough to go over and make them breakfast, remember? They haven't been returned."

"No doubt he's stolen them," Hermione muttered, not in the mood to think very highly of her best friend.

She was not naturally inclined, of course, to believe everything she read, even if the same information had been printed in several, reliable sources, some of them even being muggle written. But the fact that Harry had failed to respond to her queries for the past few days, and the fact that George was evading her pointed questions, made Hermione very suspicious. So suspicious, in fact, that she turned to Mrs. Weasley now and said:

"And he does not deserve the privilege of cooking wares when he has behaved so abominably! Would you like to be Lawrence's new godfather?"

"Oh I doubt he's taken them with him. You're being very silly, Hermione. More likely than not, Harry will return tomorrow or within a few days. You know Harry, Hermione. Even if those reports are true, he's bound to grow bored with the idea. You may scold him by the week's end, no doubt."

"I'd like to do more than scold him," Hermione clarified. "And I'd like to do it now."

Then she sighed, and plopped bonelessly next to Mrs. Weasley on the couch. It wouldn't do any good to rant and rave in the presence of Molly and Lawrence. They'd simply stare at her with amused pity, and wait for her to finish. She guessed it was her own restlessness that had her wound up so tightly. She had the distinct feeling that, though she did not say so, Molly Weasley's regular routine was somewhat hampered by the presence of the pair of Grangers. Hermione did not wish to be an impediment to somebody else's routine; she wanted to develop one of her own.

She sighed again, and idly pulled her hair out of the bun to recoil the tresses into an even tighter bun. Then she smiled. "I shall fetch the kitchenware for you, Mrs. Weasley."

"Oh, Hermione, it is not at all necessary–"

"We shall fetch it," Hermione corrected herself brightly. True, it was not a task worthy of heroes, but it was a task nonetheless. Before Mrs. Weasley could protest, Hermione had skipped away to fetch their wraps, and assured the matron that they would return as soon as possible.

She refused Stan's help when heaving Lawrence and his expensive stroller onto the Knight Bus, and sat complacently as she rolled the contraption to and fro while they made their way to Grimmauld Place.

"Wait," Stan began when they finally reached her stop with a screeching halt. "Are you–"

"Losing weight?" Hermione finished cheerfully, setting the wheels down securely before stepping off herself. "Yes, so kind of you to notice."

Much like St. Ottery Catchpole, Grimmauld Place was enjoying a chilly, sunny day with no troubles of winds at all. As she pushed Lawrence towards the door, she was suddenly struck by the thought that she had no feasible way of entry.

Lawrence squirmed with a loud whine in his seat, for her son did not enjoy the safety straps, and was forced to endure the unholy torture of security as Hermione wondered if Harry had some sort of hidden key somewhere.

Abruptly, out of the corner of her eye, Hermione thought she spied some movement in one of the windows. Walking backward and pulling the stroller with her, she stared hard at the faded curtains.

And stared.

And stared.

Wiped Lawrence's bubbles of drool–which Lawrence resented.

And stared a bit more.

"Must have been my imagination," she said uncertainly.

The curtain twitched slightly.

"Or not," Hermione said brightly.

Somebody was obviously in the house, and was being too rude–or too cowardly–to come out. No matter.

She reached down, and found a small rock at her feet. Lawrence, who found nothing of interest at Grimmauld Place, saw what his mother held and began to reach for it as well. Hermione wisely refrained from gift giving, and only told her son not to follow her example once he achieved an adequate amount of muscle.

Then she arose and threw the rock at the window.

It was supposed to bounce off.

"Oh dear, " she said ruefully. "That must have been very delicate glass." Granger refused to believe that the shattering of the high window had anything to do with her appalling aim and her overestimation.

"Shit," she swore with a stamp of her foot. It was supposed to be so easy! Just get the pots and pans! And what does she do? Destroy Harry's home!

Hermione contemplated sneaking off and leaving an apologetic note, but decided Harry was not worth the fear any way. Just as she became convinced that nobody was home to rebuke her childish mode of knocking, George Weasley appeared on the door step.

For a few minutes, he stood in complete silence, eyes darting from Lawrence to Hermione and then back to Lawrence again. Both Grangers were attempting to appear as innocent as possible. One was more successful than the other.

"You!" George accused, pointing to the suspect sitting, buckled, in his stroller. "Can't you knock like a civilised human being?"

Lawrence gurgled, which George took to be an apology, and the Weasley then showed his forgiveness by unbuckling the infant to jiggle him in his arms. As Lawrence viewed the world from a higher angle over George's shoulder, the young man observed Hermione with narrowed eyes. "And what kind of mother are you, to allow such a thing?"

"A very angry one," Hermione said, briskly pushing the pram towards the door and into the foyer. George, unperturbed by her tone, merely followed and shut the door, watching as she parked the horrendous apparatus where Pickersnit once stood. "What are you doing here?"

"House sitting," George promptly answered, and then frowned slightly as he felt his shoulder growing damp.

"Where is Harry?"

George answered with caution. "Not...in this house?" he offered experimentally.

"Of course I know he is not in the house! Do you know I encountered no pestilential journalists while I traveled here?"

George tilted his head. "I do not see that as a negative thing."

"Of course it's not! But do you know why? Because Harry's off, playing Malibu Ken, leaving me in the dark!"

George stood, awkwardly shuffling his weight from one foot to the other as Hermione expertly folded this and pressed that to transform the pram into a makeshift cradle. To save him from further drenching, Hermione efficiently took Lawrence from George and persuaded the child to sleep for a few minutes while the adults did some talking.

"It's like magic," George breathed with awe as Lawrence obediently fluttered his eyes shut.

"I wish," Hermione snorted. "It only lasts for a few minutes. Now, you tell me why you and Harry failed to see me as a one of the top priorities when this mad scheme came about–"

"Since when was a holiday a mad scheme?" George wanted to know, simply to stall.

"You're stalling," she accused with that frightening tendency of accuracy.

"I am not!" George squawked, offended.

"Then what are you doing here?" she demanded.

"House sitting! Perfectly legal in this district, thank you very much."

"House sitting!" she repeated, as if George had emitted an unforgivable insult. "You mean Harry thought to confide in you, let you know of his bizarre plans, and did not think me important enough?"

"All I said was 'house sitting'!" George exclaimed. Because they were now conversing with raised voices, Hermione moved towards the foyer once more. "How the bloody hell do you read all of that in those two words?"

"You, and Harry–" Hermione began heatedly, menacing towards George with a wagging finger.

The ceiling above them creaked. Hermione, who had been ready to spew scalding words of rebuke and logic, stopped short, and peered above them.

George faked a hiccup. "Er, so sorry. Had a jägermeister for breakfast–"

"That wasn't you and you know it," she interrupted softly, listening closely. The creak was echoed by another creak, and then another, each drawing farther and farther away from the front door and closer and closer to the top of the stairs.

Hermione stood waiting at the foot of it when Harry Potter appeared at the top.

He did not see her right away. One hand was holding up the towel about his waist and the other was using a smaller towel to dry his hair.

"Stop harping at me, for god's sake, George," he complained with a muffled voice. "We're not married, you know! For a minute there, you sounded like Hermione when she's in one of her fits–"

Because she pitied him, she cleared her throat.

He stilled. "Oh shit," he swore from under the terry cloth.

"Well that's a new pet name," Hermione said dryly, marching up the stairs. "Here's another one. Hermione, oh forgotten one? Hermione, oh uninformed one? Hermione, oh, the one who used to be your best friend until you started being a total prat–"

"How about Hermione, the one who keeps her voice down?" Harry tried, abandoning one towel to secure the one protecting his modesty tightly around his waist. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here? What are you doing here?"

Behind them, on the second highest step, they heard George swallow a cough.

"What?" they demanded tetchily.

"Sorry," George mumbled. "But that last bit...that was a bit cliche of you, Hermione."

"Do you know what else is cliche? Being pushed down the stairs. Shall we explore the venues of the unoriginal?" she threatened. George scowled at her and opened his mouth when, true to her word, Lawrence emitted a loud wail. "See to Lawrence," she snapped, and the twin could not find a good reason to oppose her command.

When she faced Harry once more, Hermione was surprised to find herself facing a mute wall, who did not explain where her friend had escaped to. It was only by the trail of wet foot prints did Hermione ferret out the sanctuary.

Unfortunately, the sanctuary was locked.

"Harry?" she called, knocking politely.

"Unless you want a half naked conversation," he answered through the door, "leave me alone to dress."

"Is Poppy here?" she wanted to know, looking around the various doors.

"No. Don't you know how to read? She's flown to the Bahamas."

"Alone?"

"I would hardly call three daughters alone," Harry corrected, suddenly opening the door. He had donned the same black, long sleeved collared shirt he had worn when he visited her at Hogwarts, and a pair of paint stained jeans. At Hermione's dumbfounded expression, Harry gently wrapped an arm around her shoulder and propelled towards the stairs. "George's suggestion. He said she needed to get away for a bit. Then he began owling every paper that still cared about the Boy Who Lived. We reckon it will take three days for them to ascertain which island she's plaguing, and then one to figure out I'm not with her."

"God," Hermione sighed, allowing him to guide her down the steps. "You'd think they'd have better things to report."

She was immensely relieved to know she was still "in the loop," though perhaps a little bit later than anybody else.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Hermione demanded.

"Well, I thought about it, but George said it was best to let you stew a bit, just in case the reporters wanted to ask you a few questions. That way, they'd get a genuine response."

"I'm going to kill him," Hermione seethed, and then stopped short. They were half way down the stair case when she paused, turned around, and tip toed. Harry, being a bit taller than her, curiously tip toed as well, and only rolled his eyes.

"Do not be stupid. It is not at all important."

"There'll be mildew, Harry."

"I'll pick it up later," he complained, attempting to drag her down the steps.

"Later means never," she sighed, and pulled out of his grasp. "I'll just be a minute."

And to think, Hermione told herself as she jogged up the steps to fetch the abandoned, damp towel, Harry had been living on his own for weeks now. There were probably dangerous toxins growing all over the place.

She held the material between her finger and her thumb while she calmly walked to the loo to see if Harry was using the laundry basket he had stolen from Dumbledore's flat. Finding nothing there except an explosion of dirty clothes, she traipsed to his bedroom to see if he was hiding the stolen goods there.

At least, she had thought it was his bedroom. Most likely only one example of dusty darkness, the room was sparsely furnished and held very little light. The curtains were drawn and there was no sign of life any where.

Except for the glittering sea of scattered glass.

Highly embarrassed for the reminder of her childish mistake, she was ready to turn when a colourful glint of one shard caught her eye. Red? But none of Number Twelve's windows were stained glass, and certainly, George would have reported an injury, no matter how minor, simply to annoy her–

As she quickly walked to the window and crouched at the puzzling piece of glass' shade, Hermione heard the door slam shut.

Oh perfect. It would only be fitting that Number Twelve was haunted.

With an unimpressed sigh, Hermione stood and turned.

Before she could understand why, before she fully grasped the meaning of why and how, Hermione's lips dropped open with surprise, and then widened with genuine joy. It almost hurt, how fast her heart was beating, it almost scared her, how much her body trembled. Surely it wasn't real? Surely, it was a dream of some sort, a hallucination from the lack of sleep and the excess of excitement?

But oh god. How perfect this hallucination was.

"Draco," she exclaimed breathlessly, running towards him, heedless of the dangerous debris.

Oh god. Oh god, he was here. He was here, standing aloofly in the corner, watching her in silence as she sat in the sunlight. How pale he looked, how remote he was, as she fled to his arms, her fingers trembling as they were the first to reach him, clutching his shirt tightly before pressing flat on his chest to slide over his shoulders.

She couldn't hold him tight enough. She couldn't get close enough. He was here, _oh god_, he was here.

She pressed herself against him as if hoping to burn the memory of his form onto hers, in fear of a sudden disappearance. Hermione couldn't understand how much she had missed him, not until this moment. Not until she was weeping silently into the crook of his neck. Until he had wrapped his arms around her with a strength she had secretly missed.

Then, because she honestly believed she would die if she did not do so, she raised her head and kissed him. It should have been a kiss of historical proportions. It should have been wilder beyond anything she had ever known. It should have seared her to the soul, marking this very moment as life changing, never to be forgotten.

But it was not.

Instead it was soft, timid, dampened by tears and intimidated by his silence. Even before she pulled her lips away from his, Hermione sensed something amiss.

His eyes had always been that cold, grey colour, had they not?

_Yes_, her mind assured her quickly, almost panicked. _Yes, they always were._

So what was the problem? Why was she uneasy?

With an almost scientific motive, she pressed her lips upon his again, the pressure building and the force growing as she searched for the answer. He quickly deepened the kiss, tongue darting into her own before she could register the crushing tightness of his arms and the muffled laughter reverberating at the back of his throat. Now there was a frantic hunt for the error, now her hands raced along his skin, reaching, grasping, clawing for the source of her unease.

Hadn't he always laughed like that? Wasn't his skin always that chilled? Hadn't his eyes always been that pale and that contemptuous?

Hermione pulled away with a gasp.

Yes. But they had never been that cold towards _her_.

"Granger," he said with a coldly amused smile. His lack of steady breaths did nothing to dull the sharp apathy of his tone. "That was an unexpected welcome."

xoxox

**  
Music when the lights come on  
The girl I thought I knew has gone  
And with her my heart it disappeared**

**The Libertines, Music When the Lights Go Out**


	20. The Return of the King

**La, la, la, I've written so much that now my hands have fallen off. Wonderfully dexterous toes I have here...**

**cylvie**: hee,hee, yeah, I guess one can see the glass half full stuff. Thanks for the consolation, no matter what the size. Still, I'm happy to say that your lovely suggestion isn't necessary any more, as my one last attempt to communicate with the writer hit home, and she deleted her fic. Thanks again for the review and your sympathy!

**insipid paragon**: yeah, I'm stupid that way. It's weird, because that's exactly the way I reacted...except, you know, in the movie theater. Still, I do the same thing at home when I'm watching the dvd. Predictably screaming "Who ARE you!" every time he comes on. Also, in the scene during which we learn the Grim, who is he to take that insolent tone with Seamus? I would have been very happy if Seamus turned around and said: "You've no right to be so snotty. _I'm_ a canon character!" And then blew a raspberry. But whatever, that's only in my warped mind. As to the eerieness about the catching smoke with your bare hands...well, I've never tried, but I'm fairly certain it's feasible! I actually contemplated putting that small thing into a movie-parody, but that was the only thing I could think of, and that certainly isn't enough to waste story space on...

Now, onto your review: What's up with Draco? Well now, it's hard to explain why family members tend to regard each other with coital desires, but, when such travesties occur, you get bipolar, moody, and albino young men as sons.

All right, all right, enough with the inbred jokes. Yes, lots and lots of Weasleys! The world may never have enough (though, that doesn't seem to be a danger, considering the reproductive rate)...Oh yes, a loverly family, full of half asian (sorry, don't know what you are, but I can only assume that you'd bring tall genes to the table, as I'm sadly lacking) little girls and boys who are madly in love with the entire Harry Potter series. And my cat Chicken–pure black and likes to sit under ladders. And my dog. And your pets, if any. Yes, I'm generous that way.

I'm embarrassed to say that I wish I were a scarlet woman. I would settle for a light pink. But no, I'm not. Sad times...

Fred was a bit of an annoyance, wasn't he? Racing up the stairs, "winning" (whatever that means in boy terms) only to run right back out just because the child was covered in baby fluid? Typical boy. Any who, that was Arthur's (incorrect) assumption. Me, I'd love to populate with George or Fred...or both...ahem, was that scarlet of me? I love Percy as well. Strange as it sounds, he was one of my favorite Weasleys when I first began to read the series. I especially preferred him over that hippie with the long hair. I've always been the nerdy type whom others tease for intelligence (which I personally believe I lack, but whatever), so Percy was always the one I defended. But now...sigh. Well, JKR has assured everybody of his redemption, so I'm hoping it's pretty damn good. I'm getting exhausted trying to come up with reasons he was such an unholy jack ass.

As to the whole lupin/lapin shpiel...product of my own, pathetically idle mind. I'm glad you found it so funny. People just stare blankly (and a leetle bit worriedly) at me when I tell them this theory o'mine. And, by the way, I think "psychotic laughing girl" is a cute pet name. Much better than "Look, it's that schizo."

As always, I'm happy to hear that I provoke such strong reactions from readers. Arousal isn't the one I usually want, but beggars and choosers and all that... :0) It's okay; I tried to use "arouse" in one of my papers once and my peer-editor (what stupid concept!) couldn't focus on anything else. Yep, yep, high school...

**kylie**: My sentiments exactly! Except it's usually more like, "No, no, go away Draco! Right off that conveniently placed cliff!" Er...slightly murderous there, I guess. What does Hermione see in him? Let's see...he doesn't have the best complexion, unless one likes that blank paper look. His body is more wiry than built, and wiry doesn't help you carry books. His attitude...well, no need to explain his attitude. So why does Hermione find herself attracted to him? Two explanations: I'm a sick, sick author. And...he's blonde. They're sexy beasts, blonde men. Blonde, sexy, English men...oops, that's me being a sick, sick author again... Confusing? Well, no longer! At least, I hope so, after this chapter. If all your questions aren't answered, then I'll do my best with the other chapter. (About that Harry and Poppy question...THERE'S NO CHEMISTRY! THERE CAN'T BE CHEMISTRY WITH A WHOLE OCEAN IN BETWEEN THEM! So, to that question...not any time soon.)

**the quiet 1**: GASP! I'm offended to the highest degree of offendedness! How dare you dislike Lawrence? That was my future son's name! Of course, I'd have get married first and then pregnant (though maybe not in that order) and then remember what I was planning to name him. I've always like the name Jeremy...

But I'm glad it fits with Hermione's character!

Rarely am I offended by the truth. Too many people have said to me, "You're so mean!" for the word "bitch" not to apply to me. Still, it's something I live with, like Remus and his monthly cycles...wow, maybe those were the wrong words to use when talking about a man...

I didn't meant to imply that my stuff was gold and everything else was crap. I just hope my stuff is slightly less crappier than the stuff on this site. I mean, I've gotten so disappointed with promising summaries (I absolutely refuse to read those "can't think of a summary" things unless they phrase that idea in a witty way) that I've been forced to go to other fanfic archives where they have strict submission guidelines, just to make sure I'll read something with decent punctuation. Sigh. I used to love, love, love this site. But it's all gotten so impersonal that I'm losing faith.

Well, that's enough with the rambling. If you ever remember what you forgot at the end of your review, just let me know and I'll be sure to respond!

**Fizzie-lizzie**: Wow, you stumped me. I have no idea what Salsa has to do with fluffy ducks Sunday service. I can only assume that it's all wonderfully fun and I'm so jealous.

Crap! Just before I responded to your review, I saw Triumph the Insult Comic Dog briefly interview Franz Ferdinand before the Grammy's (at which they were robbed!) What a coincidence! Yes...Michael...homoeroticism at its finest. Alex's voice is utterly perfect. I want one of him for my sad days! Like a life size posterboard cut out, where you press a button and he says something sexy and Scottish and..er...sexy. It's not weird to think two boys kissing as wonderful (though a lot of uptight people may think so)!

Well, everything leading up to Christmas puts me in a shitty mood (is it bad to put "Christ" and "shitty" in the same sentence?) And then Christmas comes and I find myself in a room full of drunk women and an eggplant game...the wonders of liquor and fresh produce... Still, despite the moody father scenario (to which I can sadly relate) I hope your Christmas was as fun as mine!

Right so...cancel the knock-knock jokes at the resurrection. Thanks for the advice:0D

That's an enormous compliment; that "it just seems like these things could happen." While I doubt it, I'd love it. If only I knew how it ended!

**GIRL W/PNK CONVERSE**: Update soon, update soon...come to think of it, those words are open to a lot of interpretation...I was soon, right:0)

**aurelione**: what the heck? Who censors? Where? When? What? Oh wait, I already asked that. I've seen a whole lotta flames out there with a whole lotta swearing, so I don't understand what Fido's been up to. And no, your review wasn't shit, but I still appreciate both! Your logic wasn't circular! More like non-linear...but enough with the semantics. I choose...e) none of the above. But good effort!

I've heard a song or two by the zutons at work, and I can't remember which one I really liked. And, once again, sorry about the mock trial travesty! I wish I could put What a Waster in, but I have this thing about using the same source twice. I think. Well, if I didn't, I've recently developed it. Thanks for both reviews!

**Bella**: Well now, there's a great idea. Whenever I post something horrible, I'll just recommend vodka and meditation! Correction Bella; I didn't make Draco unlikeable. He makes himself unlikeable. It's just high time Hermione sees that and marries a fine, upstanding young man with a stable job. Like George or something. Whew, there's a plot twist that'll never happen! And DON'T get on your hands and knees and beg. It'll make me feel guilty. And, if you must, use your meditation mat to cushion. And tell your fiancee it wasn't my idea to make you beg like that.

Stop it, stop it, stop it! Lalala...I'm not listening to the bad sides of Australia! Well, I live in the bible belt of the USA, so I deal with culturally challenged people on a regular basis. If I could count the number of times people thought the Philippines was an island near Mexico...sigh. But, what! No animals on the side of the road? What, does Steve Irwin just plant them there! THAT'S CHEATING!

I've seen lotsa photos of the beach which look WONDERFUL...and then I hear about the spiders, snakes, jelly fish...hell, I've even learned that the koalas can scratch very painfully! Christ almighty! How the hell does somebody swim in the water knowing all the dangerous animals there!

I'll be heading your way soon...well, not Australia, but the Phils this summer. Maybe I can high jack a boat (would that be boat-jacking?) and see this intellectually challenged pm of yours...

Didn't mean to build up with the jokes and then give an unexpected "wham!" It was all accidental, I swear! Happy reading!

**foxxglove**: heylo there new reader! Glad you weren't daunted by the length! Me, if I saw this fic was as long as it is...I'd have given up by chapter 2. So kudos to you! Madly snickering is the best kind of snickering; in my limited experience with madness, that is...thanks for the review, and I hope you don't mind cliff hangers!

**Mel**: Wow, it's a horrible cliff hanger AND great stuff! Ha! I defy the rules of agreement! That's enough ego inflation for today...All the answers to your questions will be given in due time...how much time, I don't know, because it all depends on how fast you read:0)

**sugar n spice 522**: sad? It wasn't more like...surprising? Or exciting? Or...nope, I guess it was sad. Hate to say it, but I CAN believe he's so mean...just not so mean to Hermione. Sorry to be a Debbie Downer, but it gets a wee bit sadder before long. I'll tell you my secret of writing such long chapters...no sleep. NO SLEEP AT ALL! And then a long drink of coke or pepsi or anything sugary around two o'clock in the afternoon, just in time for classes and work...yep, I guess I'll die of exhaustion somewhere around June, just in time for vacation...

Thanks for another great compliment! Sorry to keep you waiting for so long!

**expoeraser**: Yeppers, and here's another one of epic proportions. Fifty five pages, last time I checked. Whether or not it's good...well, that's up to you. I agree with you about the difficulty levels. It's easy to go on about how much this person loves that person; which is why I usually have to edit my one-shots to shave the fluffiness. Angst is difficult for me because I tend to go on and on about how crappy things are...but humor is the hardest one of all, because things that are funny to me usually aren't that funny to other people. For instance: What is green and stays in trees all day? A wood pickle! I laughed for at least thirty minutes on that joke, and my boss had told me it just to show how unfunny her boyfriend is. So with my humor, it's always iffy!

I'd rather work full time than work part time (the hours of which border at full time where I work!) And have to worry about my homework for a class I won't ever use in the future. For instance, I don't give a flaming damn about the atomic numbers! THAT'S NOT GOING TO HELP ME PAY MY TAXES!

Whatchya going back for? I mean, what area of concentration? Just curious.

Well, now, it would have been wrong to poke fun at Emma and Dan and leave Rupert alone! They ignore him enough already! Red haired baby–gotta love dormant genes.

Now, your whole take on the Hermione's reaction (or lack thereof) was long and annoying and entirely correct, which was why this chapter is as long as it is. I had been neglecting character development for the sake of the plot, so thanks very much for giving me a swift kick in my literary ass. Very much needed!

I loved Percy from the very beginning. I hate what JKR's done with his character, but it all makes so much sense. Just because he's ambitious doesn't mean he's evil (though I guess one could confuse one with the other) and, at any rate, I'm glad I made him somewhat redeemed and not out of character.

Hey now, Harry's pretty good at keep secrets! He's also good at lying, so it all works out.

Many questions! All questions answered (hopefully) in this chapter!

**flea**: yes, I know it took me ages, and I think this update took ages as well. Still, it's my understanding that everybody enjoys ages, correct? ;0) well, since it took me forever again, I could only hope this chapter is enough to earn another forgiveness!

**Athena Linborn**: Oh dear, stay in bed if it's a choice between reviewing and resting! Honestly! There's plenty of time to rant at me once the immunity system has done its job! Is it Lucius she's embracing? Well...no...it's more like Lucius' son...but close and wishful guess! Don't worry! Everything will be explained in this chapter (and I hope you're feeling better!)

**Star-Angel23**: Join the club! If I could count the number of times people have responded (or even emailed!) me about a review I wrote...I'd have a lot of free time on my hands. Still, I'm glad that, despite your bad experience, you were kind enough to review mine! Thanks for the lovely Weasley compliments; I try (shrugs modestly!) I love Percy too! I tell my sisters to give him time, he's a basically good guy...I would have never thought that he'd be the one son to rebel! I wish I could see your professor's face with you laughing out loud (that wasn't cause of my fic, was it?) My classes are so boring that spontaneous laughter would be great. Am I sarcastic...well, my mom thinks so. And my sisters. And my coworkers. And...yeah, gee, I guess I am sarcastic. I actually want this poster on that says "National Sarcasm Society: Like we need your support." It's perfect! Wow, a bit off track...any who, yes Draco is back! He's here to stay...at least until I write him out again! Hooray!

**Sissiro**: Glad to know the humor and Poppy agreed with you. Honestly, I don't like to write about her; she's original, so it's hard to develop a character and then make sure she stays within character...does that make sense? Well, any ways, I chose Bill to father children because he's the oldest. Must go in order, to be fair and everything. Draco has always been an ass! Well, this is filled with Draco content and a few answers, so without further ado:

Loved your review! Loved you! And I hope you love this chapter!

**Breanna Senese**: Wow, I always love comparisons to JKR stories..even if mine pale in comparison, thanks! Here you go, and I hope you haven't been too impatient with the updating speed!

**Dastardly Snail**: You and your crazy theories! I'm glad you liked those parts, but sorry to say, not crazy shenanigans in this chapter...at least, I don't think so, but thinking hasn't always been my forte...

**loverlydaisy520**: Well, to be fair "Granger" is her last name, so it's not like he's insulting her or anything...if one was to be optimistic... I'm glad you liked everything up until the end. Yes, I know dada is very silly sounding, but, being the lazy ass I am, I'd rather say that than the whole mouthful!

Yeah, go on, write the outtake! I wouldn't mind in the least! I'm sure you'd do a fantastic job with it; besides, if you think you'd have fun doing it, I don't see any reason why you shouldn't.

Oops! I guess I did leave you in that "sorrowful state" for a while, didn't I? I hope the length of this chapter makes up for it!

**Shards-of-ice**: Hiya and thanks! Yup, I know I can get a little bit hectic when it comes to dialogue, but I'll try to improve on that part! I'm glad you enjoyed it so much!

**WordE.Smith**: Heylo again! I don't mind what you write about in your reviews; it's nice enough that you review. Now, onto serious matters.

Absolutely correct. I couldn't have said it any better myself. It is the sex. I simply don't understand how even homophobes could resist the genius that is that song. And oh god, I've searched and searched for the live version on rather not legal downloading sites, and I couldn't find it. Oh well, I'll keep trying!

I've only recently found out about the libs, and only because we listen to xm radio at work. Oh and, the fact that I had to buy a Q magazine at Barnes and Noble, otherwise the British boy I was stalking would have suspected that I was merely staring at him and no actually browsing through the brit magazines aisle...and lo and behold! Attached to that magazine was a free cd, on which many artists featured their songs. I heard "Can't Stand me Now" and I wanted to see what else they produced. I really love "France," but then again, I'm partial. Otherwise, I would have totally remained clueless about the fantastic British music out there.

It's perfectly fine about not having reviewed in a while! You've been busy with your other things!

True, true, Harry's merely been floating. But, if I had the money that Harry has, I would be floating as well! But, as desired, Harry does have a job...he's just not going to like it. Also, I don't know if Poppy will fit into Harry's life; she may be nothing more than Hermione's annoying friend. I have faith in the Longbottom as well; I just have more faith in him as a Ministry-worker than anything else!

About Poppy: I thought it would be a bit too strange to have the once skeptical-about-anything-magic mom to be jumping with joy about the suggestion of her magical kids. I think I read somewhere where "muggle" was a reference to somebody easily mugged or tricked or something like that, so I decided to use it here. I know of some landed elite around here, but they own things, companies that they don't have to work in, just own.

About the Weasleys..well, to be fair, Charlie got laid. He needs his own special characterization as well? I don't think so. Well, to be truthful, I sort of have trouble separating the personalities of Bill and Charlie. To me they're just the same entity in two different bodies. Cool, older brother. Oh, and about Bill...there's not proof he's procreating with everything in sight; just accusations! Fred is the perceptive one, I think, if you're referring as to who saw the hidden gifts under Percy's bed. I wish Mrs. Weasley would adopt me!

As for Draco, he's both a sociopath and just an ass. But, you're right on one thing; things will be explained in this chapter! Any who, you should stop saying sorry for not reviewing, and I'm glad we have similar tastes in music, and I hope you like this chapter!

**DracoDraconis:** Heya! Whew! Glad to know you have such faith in my writing!

About the contest, is that the multi-faceted awards thingy? Because, if it is, yeah, I know about it because somebody emailed me telling me I was nominated. I've never heard of it before though, and, as you said, there's an enormous selection of fics, so I highly doubt I'll even get honorable mention!

I write so much because I have no life and sleep. Wonderful combination! Thanks for the review!

**Brandybuckbeak**: Heya! Yes, yes, I know I took eternity! Sorry! But, as updating, I was thinking of you. I thought, if no one appreciates this chapter title, I know for certain Brandybuckbeak will.

Yes! After typing "it was supposed to be so easy," I immediately thought of the streets song! And, I'll tell ya something; I'm thinking of quoting them for one of the last chapters, but I don't know. They're not the usually serious stuff I quote, so I don't know...

Draco? Amnesia? Er...I won't tell! You hafta read!

I think I'm slowly leaving the sphere of the ring trilogies. Before, I've had trouble knowing just who the hell "Charlie" was on Lost, before somebody told me (kinda impatiently, I might add!) that Charlie was Merry. It's taking a while for that name change to sink in...

Hey, I made it through the 8 years window, didn't I?

Thanks for reviewing!

**Monkeystarz**: Yes, how could he? Don't blame me–it's all Draco's fault! Rotten bastard! Grr...

And, while I think you lost me too in that little angry rant reasoning thingymajigger, I'm pretty sure I understand it. One cannot hate Draco for acting like Draco because he's just being Draco. That was the gist of it right? Or did I make up my own thing. Oh well, it was still a good review, no matter how many lost people it caused, because I'm always happy to hear that I get such a strong response to whatever I've written!

So, I hope you've found yourself in time to read this chapter and let me know what you think:0)

The Painted Past

Chapter 20

**He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster.**

xoxox

He didn't understand. Nobody of his position would, Draco reflected, so he refused to acknowledge this lapse of incomprehension as a "weakness." _She_ was the one, after all, who was manhandling him without ceremony.

Not that any man needed ceremony–nor reason, nor explanation–to be manhandled by such a female. Despite their differences, Draco had always some idea of Hermione Granger's prettiness. It was certainly nothing to rave about, but her face did have a pleasant effect on him...sometimes.

In any case, it was not her "face" that was doing interesting things to his person. No, her hands–those capable, swift, war-roughened hands–were scrambling for his clothing. It had galled him beyond words how he was forced to wear Potter's clothes. The fact that Granger now wanted to tear these loathsome garments off made this enforced sabbatical much more tolerable.

But the sleeves? Did she have some sort of fetish with arms? What lust bunny went directly for the sleeves?

Her brown eyes stared at his skin with quivering shock. Draco said nothing as, with the same inexplicable panic, she reached for his other wrist, and pulled the material so quickly and roughly it burned his skin. She was speaking gibberish, though that was not new. Hermione Granger was always saying nonsense, like "There's no difference between purebloods and muggleborns," or "Harry isn't gay."

Come to think of it...when had she said that falsehood of Potter-heterosexuality? It sounded so familiar...

"Granger," he issued, his tone just the right blend of reproof and amusement. His demeanor was conscientiously a degree or two warmer with her than with others. The purpose of this was the fact that Granger was one of the few people he respected. While she was of rotten class and deplorable moral standing, she was an annoyingly skilled witch and strategist. Something even Draco wouldn't deny.

Perhaps she didn't notice his condescension, for her eyes seemed to be filling with tears, especially at the sight of his other arm. What? The mark? Is that why her bottom lip was trembling so? She had seen it before. Draco Malfoy snorted to himself, and rolled his eyes. Trust somebody like her to find the mark so repulsive it moved her to tears.

Slightly irked that this would-be collaboration was veering towards a weepy road, Malfoy jerked back his arms, gently pushed her away to regain his footing, and once more buttoned the cuffs to this appalling thing Harry Potter called a shirt.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked her brusquely. It was an unusual question, and, inwardly, he hoped she would not tease him about it. It was not that he was overly concerned with her well being. It was just that...well...it was just that this sadness of her well-being was infringing on the enjoyment of his well being. That was all.

She did not answer immediately, and, to conceal a vulgar display of frustration, Malfoy straightened his sleeves once more, smoothing the wrinkles. Then he rolled his eyes. As if it would help.

Frowning, he observed the cut on his index finger, and nodded to the debris. "Did you do that?"

Silence.

The kind of floaty stillness had always been present in this god forsaken house. The air shimmered when one wasn't looking, the dust swam at a lazy pace through the random shafts of unwelcome light, and the walls seemed to lean towards you as you passed them, as if studying and measuring, seeing if you're fit to inhabit this weary abode of decaying traditions and mediocre new blood. The moment she had stepped into the room, the heavy, dead world had not thinned but sprang to life. He could feel now, for some odd reason. He was not cocooned by the grey dead flesh, but connected to the world. For some odd reason.

_Don't be an imbecile_, a critical voice told him coolly in his mind. Disturbingly, that voice reminded him of his father, may he burn in hell. _It's not an odd reason. It's her._

An uneasy, prickly sensation crept up his neck, and Draco did not like it. With one hand, he rubbed the back of his neck as he stepped around her and closer to the mess. Idly, he kicked at the culprit rock. "What was it, an assassination attempt?"

_Fuck! _What was the matter with him? Making jokes for someone like her? So what? So what if that lost, tremulous quality plagued her? So what if she appeared to be fighting something, something massive and burning and within? It wasn't his problem. It had nothing to do with him. As if making a joke, winning a laugh, was worth the effort?

Still...

It was unsettling. Something was different about Granger. She was plumper, but, oddly, the extra weight did nothing to diminish her beauty. She looked more fatigued, but that was most likely owed to that brat she had wheeled in. Maybe the father was causing her stress? Draco was not surprised. He never believed a Weasley would be good for breeding. Well, obviously, they were good _at _breeding, and there really should have been a law by now...

But which Weasley was it? Malfoy found that, once his mind latched onto the horrendous thought, it refused to release it. Most likely George...or was it Fred? Discerning the two had never really been a priority for Draco Malfoy. Still, whoever it was, there could be no other explanation for that hair. She was visiting him, wasn't she? Harping at him, wasn't she? Perhaps there had been a falling out between the lovebirds, and that was why the horrible weasel was seeking refuge in this hell hole...

Damn it, he could _feel _her. He could feel her eyes resting on his back as he stared at the broken shards. Why, fuck it, why could he feel her?

"Granger," he said again, voice sharpening into a sleek, warning blade. He disliked to use it on her, in the past, for she had never needed it like her imbecilic friends. "Granger, will you say something instead of standing their like an idiot?"

There was an awful noise in the room. A terrible, teeth-gnashing, stiffening sound that was just as powerful as it was tiny. Hermione Granger had cried just a little bit.

He turned to her, his silhouette merely a blank, black outline against the blinding sunlight. Through her tears, through her sadness, she could not find his expression. But she could find his emotion, when he spoke.

"Don't."

"But what did he do?" she asked again, this time intelligibly, instead of the incoherent sob she had released before. "What did he do to you?"

The bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed it, just as he swallowed the urge to go to her. To do what, he did not know. All he knew was that she was crying and, for some mysterious reason, he had to fix that.

_Fellow soldier_, his mind dismissed quickly. That was all. When one endured something like what they had endured...it was natural. One ensured the safety of one fighter so that fighter could save your arse later on.

"Nothing," he answered, not as roughly as he would have liked. "You mean Potter, I assume?" She nodded, the first intimation of comprehension, and he eased somewhat. The scowl on his face was unchangeable, however, and he saw no reason to modify that simply because she decided to become girlish. "If this is some sort of suggestion of disgusting behavior with that hero–"

"You called me Granger," she protested, stepping closer to the light and, thankfully, gaining control of her outburst. Now, only faint traces of despair swam in her words. "You called me Granger. Why?"

He hesitated, watching her small feet step closer and closer to the irregular shaped sunlight. Had her name changed since he last saw her? If so, he refused to admit the error.

"What would you prefer?" he asked her, in a timbre that was meant to be jovial. Bizarrely, he thought he sounded more acidic than friendly. "An endearment?"

Then the Hermione Granger he knew and..._knew _was back. The last of her tears trailed down the planes of her face as she rushed closer, staring up at him as if he was incapable of hurting her. Incapable of retaliation.

"Yes," she spat harshly. "Yes, something like that. Something closer to the truth, at least. For god's sake, Draco."

"What?" he demanded, stepping back, the glass making a horrible, grating sound beneath his feet. "What's wrong with you?"

"You used to believe nothing could be wrong with me," she hissed, features twisting with scorn and hurt.

On a rare occasion, he failed to mask his sincere response. Malfoy's mouth dropped open in surprise. "Was I pissed?"

Granger looked as if she'd like to rip him into pieces. There was some merit to the threat in her eyes, yet he refused to back away. Instead of inflicting bodily harm–or at least making a pitiful attempt–the hands that reached for him merely grasped his shoulders with frightening desperation. "Just say my name. Just call me Hermione, at least."

"Granger, you're being–"

"Just say it! Say it, and then, maybe, you'll remember the last time–"

"I haven't forgotten anything, Granger." With difficulty, he pried her fingers off and awkwardly held her hands in his own. _How warm she feels_, he thought distractedly. _Is that normal? _"As much as you wish it," he said, forcing a laugh into his bewildered words, "I'm not quite as unsound as your lot'd like to think–"

"Please," she requested quietly, voice weak and exhausted. _Just like she looks_, Malfoy thought, pitying her. Potter was doing a shit job keeping his friend sane.

"Please," Granger repeated, with more command in her tone. "Please, just stop acting like this."

"I'm not acting," he told her, dropping her hands. He disliked how the chill of his hands lessened when clasping hers. It was unnatural.

"He's not acting," an intruder corroborated.

Hermione bowed her head, quelling the sobs, as she listened to Harry step closer, shattering the anguishing solitude. As much as it tore her, as much as it incinerated her soul, she wanted this. She wanted to be alone with him, even if he did not know her. She wanted to feel his touch, even if that touch did not recognise her flesh. She wanted him to say her name, even if that name held no meaning to him. She could try, couldn't she? Isn't that what people in love did, right? They tried, and tried, even if it was all so fucked up that it wasn't worth it. They tried, and they tried, because if they just sat there and let it–whatever the hell it was–die, then it would hurt so much more than rejection. It would hurt so much, much more.

"What did you do?" she roared, facing him. "What did you do?"

It wasn't that Draco Malfoy was some sort of product of perfection. He hadn't been an angel, marred by the evil doings of Harry Potter. There was nothing to corrupt, for everything was already beyond tainting. Harry hadn't destroyed anything, for, if he had, there would have been an improvement of Malfoy. There were cases in which a person was so wrong, so spiritually ruined, that an injury, a theft of that person would only result in a better person.

But, in doing whatever inhuman crime that made Draco this way, Harry had stolen something else. Something that wasn't wrong, something that did not need his sanctimonious editing.

Draco had loved her. Loved her with an emotion that was unsullied, unaffected by that abyss of his soul.

And Harry had stolen that.

"You fucking bastard," she shrieked.

Oh god, just to hurt him, just to make him _feel _something like she was feeling–

"I hate you," she sobbed.

He just needed to burn, to sting, like she did, that was _all_–

"Granger, what the–"

He had _no idea! _No idea of what he had done! She'd give him an idea, she'd _make _him know–

"Don't hurt her, for fuck's sake–"

"Would you rather she kill you?"

Oh god, oh god, was _this _love? Was it supposed to hurt like _this_?

How could he do this? He was a _friend_, how could he destroy her like this?

"That was the man I loved!" she shouted, breaking away from the restraining arms. Wildly, she pointed to the bewildered fugitive, who, once more stood by the window, the white rays pinning him to the spot. Harry stood near the door, as if she dared an escape.

"And you stole him, Harry, you've taken him away from me," she continued, words breaking on sobs and half hearted shouts. "How could you? Twice, Harry, fucking twice I have to do this?"

Oh god, she hadn't cried like this since remembering. She hadn't cried with so much pain, so much hurt, for so long that she had forgotten how to stop. That sickening coil, icy and undeniable, was unfurling in her chest, demanding to be acknowledged. She couldn't pretend any more, could she? Pretend that it was all going to be okay, just like they all told her. It wasn't okay, being a single mother, being heart broken, pretending one thing to please a friend, pretending another to please herself,_ it wasn't okay_...

"I hate you. You've no idea, so how can you do this? How can you take away something from me, possibly the only thing I have left. Do you care for me at all? Do you think of anybody but yourself?"

That made his teeth clench, that made his jaw set. His green eyes narrowed as his posture shed the wariness, and stiffened with anger.

Back literally against the wall, she did not cower, and only clenched her fists at her sides. _Say your worst_, she silently dared him. _Say your worst, for nothing could defend your actions._

His mouth opened while his eyes remained fixed on her own. "Malfoy."

The stranger was regarding them with artificial aloofness. And it was artificial, Hermione knew that, for that was what old Draco did. Mask every emotion, no matter how harmless, with that damned safe apathy. He must have felt something earlier, when she held him, when his skin touched her skin. Hermione refused to believe otherwise.

"Potter."

"Get the hell away from the window."

"Why? Nobody sees this place."

"Go somewhere else."

"Am I your bloody servant?"

"No, you're my bloody house guest," he parried angrily. "Unless you want to stand witness to a friendly, wholesome, emotional conversation between normal, mixed blooded, good wizards–"

Draco rolled his eyes, roughly shoving Harry aside as he stalked out of the room. Just before he left, he sent a brief glance towards Hermione. But it was too quick to be analysed, and he shut the door before Hermione could speak.

Harry was on the offense before she could returned her gaze to him.

"What the hell are you so angry about, hmm?" Harry demanded, striding quickly to the broken window to repair it with a barely a wave of his hand. "Why are you crying? Because I made you see what he is? Because you've finally caught a glimpse of reality?"

His ire was loudly echoed with every hard step, each clap thundering as he strode yet again across the room, this time to lock the door and mutter a silencing spell.

"Reality how you tailored it," she argued, amazed at his daring. "That's how he used to be, Harry–"

"How he used to be," Harry repeated with a wild laugh. He began a slow, sarcastic applause, and sat on the bed with maddening insolence. "You're so clever you manage to fool yourself."

"Really, Harry?" she spoke scathingly, stalking closer. "Just how the hell do you justify tampering with a man's soul?"

"The soul's intact, you moron," Harry retorted mercilessly. "You've just been too pathetically blind to acknowledge that."

Hermione stared down at him, and softly shook her head. This time, it was she who laughed, the sound rich with acidic amusement and disbelief. "My god. How deluded have you become? You've actually convinced yourself that whatever you did to Draco is right? How, Harry, just tell me. How is stealing somebody's rightful property a good thing?"

"It's a good thing," he drawled, "when that somebody does not deserve it."

"Who are you to judge who deserves what?"

"I know he doesn't deserve what you give him. Gave him."

The bastard had the audacity to use past tense. How her hand ached to throttle him.

Harry rose now, perhaps disliking how she looked down on him. They stood only a few inches a part. Close enough to hurt each other...yet too close to want to hurt each other.

"How do you know it was me?" he goaded, an outrageously smug smirk resting on his lips. "How do you know he didn't do it to himself? Cut off the limb before the gangrene spreads."

"Only somebody pitifully ignorant would think of love as a disease," she responded contemptuously.

"Oh," Harry replied, taking on false surprise. "You call it love? Tell me, Hermione, had not Draco 'tampered with your soul' and 'stole your rightful property,' would you have fallen in love with him? No," he answered, not giving her a chance to respond. "No. You'd call it wrong. You'd call it immoral. You'd call it, at best, the emotions of another woman, a different woman, because, certainly, the Hermione he created to love him was not the same Hermione who refrained from loving him."

"Exactly," she hissed, jabbing a finger into his shoulder. "Exactly. The tampering, the changing, your god damned meddling–he's not the same Draco. You didn't revert him to the true him, to the real him. You merely resurrected a poor quality copy of what you want him to be."

"All I did," Harry argued, voice rising as he pushed her hand away, "was remove the emotion. Just one. Just the bits with you attached to them. What's left _is _him. What's left is what he's _always been_. What? You think that the face he put on for you proved him a changed man? Every guy does it, Hermione, and don't act as if you're too stupid to know that. The man he was with you is not the man he was with everybody else."

"But when he was with me..." Oh god, it was impossible to explain. It was impossible to explain that, when Draco was with her, Draco no longer cared of appearances, of charades. "I was everybody else."

"Oh god! You selfish bitch," he exclaimed, turning away from her in sheer exasperation. "Is that what you want then?" he demanded. "To keep Draco the way he is, was–oh fuck it all, we're not arguing about this again! Even if this is wrong, Hermione, it's necessary and you know it! What, damn it, what? Do you want me to undo it, and let him remember, and let him refuse to help us?"

"Do you even know what you're asking? Sacrifice one mind for another, as if one mind is of more value than the other?"

"Ron _is _more valuable!"

"That is your opinion!"

"Hell yes, it's my opinion, and it used to be yours too!"

"You don't even know," Hermione argued. "You don't even know how Ron is now."

"Yeah? So? Neither do you."

The silence fell heavily and clumsily upon the pair, somewhat hindered by Harry's sounds of surprise and Hermione's unwavering gaze.

"Neither do you," he repeated, between clenched teeth.

"Hey may not be the same," Hermione stated firmly. "He may not be the Ron we both loved–"

"May not," he repeated derisively. "May not. Or_ is _not, Hermione? God!" He laughed again, this time at himself, as he walked around the room, shaking his head. "Why am I so surprised? To think that you'd keep another secret from me? What is it this time, Hermione? Dreams again? Huh? Covert letters. What is it, Hermione, go on, tell your evil, best friend. Why'd you keep a secret?"

"Shut up."

"What? Was it fun, then? Having two blokes chasing after you? Good for the ego, I wager."

"Shut up!"

"And all the secrecy. Added spice to it, didn't it? Clever girl, that Hermione Granger, dragging two men on without letting no one know of them and letting neither know of each other. Only somebody of that intelligence and that heartlessness could pull off–"

"I don't want him to see me like this!" she roared, pushing Harry away so abruptly he stumbled back onto the bed. "Say you bring him back, Harry. It's perfect for you, oh yes, it's fucking wonderful for the friend. But what of me?"

Harry was genuinely confused. "What of you?"

"_He won't love me any more!_"

They both stilled, stunned by the words that had always thrummed in her head, her heart, silently anticipating the chance to be let out. It had always been there, that fear. Older than Harry, than Lawrence, than Draco. Even before Ron had left her, she worried. Would Ron continue to love her, after everything?

In the darkest of the night, in the most silent hours, Hermione would allow the relief to seep out of her guilty heart.

_Oh god, thank god Ron died loving me. I couldn't stand it if he lived and stopped loving me._

_Stupid, selfish bitch!_ That was what Harry was calling her now, and that was what she called herself whenever she allowed the traitorous thoughts to run free. Because it was selfish to be grateful for his death and it was stupid to ever doubt his love...but it happened and she couldn't stop it.

And that shadow of a doubt had solidified with every dream, every faint whisper of macabre communication. Don't touch me, he had said the first time.

No words of love. Nothing of love.

And why should there be? She had betrayed him, hadn't she? She had accepted the embrace of another man, even while hints of Ron lurked in her mind. Why should he continue to tenaciously maintain his love for her, while she so flippantly liberated her loyalty to him? She didn't deserve it.

"I don't deserve it."

Every encounter reinforced the belief. Each "dream" left her breathless, chilled...aching for more as if it were physical education. Just thoughts, just a sprinkle of words, his words...how wonderful they were. When her eyes shut and her mind left the world, how precious those moments with him became.

And she never knew it! She never knew it, how much she enjoyed it, until she had awoken and remembered and analysed it to understand it. And how angry she would become with herself, how utterly frustrated she would be when the comprehension hit and she realised she had been too stupid, too blind, to enjoy what had happened while it had been happening.

Often, that was how her dreams were. Fleeting, easily forgotten, until haunting her with startling clarity.

And with every perusal, every study, Hermione could only conclude one, bone chilling fact.

This Ron was not her Ron. This Ron was not the Ron who loved her.

And so she tucked those rare encounters away, sometimes regarding them as confidential files, sometimes dismissing them altogether. That had been her own iron-will, personified and capable of speech, that had helped her with Lawrence's arrival. That had been her subconscious, personified into something lovingly familiar, that had helped her sort out the mess with Draco.

So there had been no use. No use to tell others of these things. No use to confide in Harry silly imaginings, for Harry, with his natural paranoia, would read into the fanciful dreams, and claim verity in them. It was so much easier, so much safer for her heart, if she reached for logical explanations instead of groping blindly for the emotional truth. Conveniently, there were so many things to distract her that it didn't seem so heartless, it didn't seem so cruelly careless, to forget about him. Lawrence was crying, Harry was sulking, Mrs. Weasley was weeping so of course, of course, she couldn't spend precious minutes dwelling on this disturbing revelation.

"Is that what he's told you," Harry wanted to know, incredulous protectiveness shining in his eyes. "Is that what Ron has said to you?"

"No...yes...oh god, Harry, he feels so different–"

"Because he's wrong," he interrupted firmly. "You deserve his love, just like you deserve mine, and Larry's and–hell, Hermione. Of all people in the world, I think you deserve love."

"Then why did you take it away?" she asked softly.

He bit at his bottom lip, and rubbed the back of his neck, much like Draco had done earlier. Did all men do that? Had Ron ever done that? She couldn't remember. Would she have the chance to see?

"I'm giving you something back!"

Oh yes, he was angry again, Hermione expected that. But there was a pleading in his tone, a begging quality that made Hermione wish she could believe him without any fears.

"How can you be so stupid?" he demanded. "What is this, Hermione, just what the hell is this? Some adolescent case of self-doubt? Of course he loves you, he'll always love you, everybody knows–"

"Everybody does _not _know," she thundered, crushing his words with a frightening look. "That's what everybody has assumed, and everybody is not always right! Everybody knows that Draco is an evil bastard, everybody knows that you're the hero, everybody knows that what poor Hermione Granger needs is Ron Weasley back..."

"So you know the truth," he approved mockingly. "You're just in denial."

"Fuck you," she cried breathlessly. "Just who the hell are you–and 'everybody' for that matter–to decide what's best for me? What? Do you fancy yourself a god, now, Harry? Bravo, you've saved the world! What now? You've the right to arrange it how you see fit? That selfish bitch goes with my best mate, this evil bastard gets irreparably damaged–"

"That bastard," Harry cut in, gesturing towards the closed door as if the man in question still stood there, "was _already _damaged. What else do you call somebody who does what he did to you? At least he deserved it, Hermione. You didn't! You think what I've done is so horrendous? He's done the same god damned thing to you!"

"I know!"

"Then why do you love him?" Harry screamed, louder than ever, the tendrils of control snapping under the rising tension. "Then why do you love him more than you love Ron?"

"Because," she began, hot tears reappearing once more. "Because," she tried again, the pitiful explanation tragically broken and sad. "Because he's..."

"You can't even tell me why," Harry said helplessly, as if nothing, not even his own power, could contain the frustration and anger towards her.

"Even if I could," she spoke softly, eyes looking towards the ceiling in an air of prayer. The tears never stopped. "Even if I could," she repeated, louder, "you would never understand."

"Don't give me that shit again," he warned her. "_Don't do that_. I've never been in love, I get it, but that does _not _mean I do not know love. What makes you think that I enjoy making you cry? What makes you think I enjoy lying to the Weasleys, to Remus? I hate secrets, Hermione. My whole life is blackened by secrets, and here I am perpetuating the horrible veil. I don't want to do it, Hermione, but I have to, because I love Ron. I'll be damned if I ever have to say that in past tense. Just because you're too scared to face the consequences of your own stupid actions does not mean he should have to suffer-"

"I'm scared," she repeated in disbelief. "You, of all people, tell me I'm scared?"

"What does that mean, me of all people?"

"You, who hides in the past? You, who has to have things _just so_, so that you can feel all right again? Why do you want Ron back, tell the truth Harry. Because you want it all to be the same, you bloody coward. You don't know how to function in this new world, you don't know how to fucking change, so you try your best to pretend that it's all the same. You cower in places that you've known, places that have always meant protection, and you stay the same, Harry, you stay the same. You hate what I've done so much Harry, do you really? At least I've done _something_. At least I've grown up."

For a few seconds, neither could find any more words to say. They were exhausted both physically and emotionally. Dimly, they were both away of hurt feelings, of smarted souls, but were too tired to register the pain.

It was different this time. Hermione realised that, unlike their other arguments, this one was truly serious. Stupid as it was, she had not expected the issues to arise so suddenly and violently. The underlying tension between them had simply been that; underlying. It had never occurred to her that, so soon to the event, the matters would explode. Even if this was to be resolved–which she doubted–there was little chance of regaining the closeness she and Harry had accomplished these past few months. It wasn't a matter of hurting each other's feelings. It was a matter of hurting each other's _others._

"Will you still help me?" he wanted to know, staring dully at the floor.

Hermione turned away, not to hide her guilt, but to hide her pain. The fact that he had to ask...she didn't expect it to hurt so deeply.

"Yes," she answered quietly.

"And when Ron comes back," he pushed, "how will you greet him?"

"What do you think, Harry?" Hermione's tone was cool. "That I'll break his heart the second he reappears?"

"I didn't mean it that way," he snapped, annoyed.

"I never said," she continued determinedly, ignoring him, "that I've stopped loving Ron. I never said that."

Harry walked about the room, flexing his jaw every so often. "What then? You love them both, equally?"

"I...I love them both, differently."

He gave a sardonic chuckle at that, and shook his head as he kicked at the rug. "Only you, Hermione Granger. Only you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing at all," he replied. Closing his eyes as if experiencing an excruciating head ache, Harry took off his glasses to lean face first against the wall. Hermione watched him with some concern, wondering if he was going to go for the cliché head-banging thing.

"It's not permanent," he admitted gruffly. "It could be...if you wish. But, after the ceremony, I intend to have that bastard back to his rightful self. It will just take some time."

"Why?" To Hermione, it sounded as if her best friend would enjoy Draco's struggle with his own memories.

"Because that's how it was with you, wasn't it? Once he stopped having the opportunity to do the nightly ritual, the memories came back, did they not?"

Hermione stewed over the quick explanation. It was true, of course, but she found something unsettling. "How do you know this?"

"Your file."

"I've a file?" For some reason, the thought of Harry Potter carefully keeping character files on his friends made Hermione want to let out a wildly inappropriate giggle.

"At the Ministry. You know. When you were first rescued. They made a psych evaluation–"

"Yes, yes, I know," she quickly cut him off, not at all eager to relive those horrible, sterile stays. "But how did you come by them?"

Harry wiped the lens of his glasses with the hem of his shirt. His expression was thoughtful and shuttered. With the air of tasting something sour, he looked up at her as he quickly strode to the door. "Make a list," he told her flippantly, "of the questions you'd like to ask. I will answer them later."

"Harry," Hermione spoke with no belligerence in her tone. She was utterly amazed by his lightness. "Harry, we're not finished here."

"We'll have to be," he said quickly, opening the door. "I've an appointment."

"For what?"

"I'm being fitted for robes. I'll come back after supper. Try not to spill any secrets to He Who Barely Knows His Name, please."

Oh, how could he joke so breezily about that. "Don't run away," she ordered, hating that frustration made her voice break. "You're always running away! You disappear, or you make a joke, or you just back away...Harry, damn it, just finish this!"

He continued to walk, but the tense squaring of his shoulder told her that, once again, her words had struck a raw nerve. "That is exactly what I'm doing, Hermione Granger. I made a vow to my best mate. I plan to see it through. Some of us, you know, tend to have loyalty to the ones we love."

For a few minutes, Hermione was at a loss for words. She decided to ignore his careless cruelty, for it had been nothing more than instantaneous hurt. And there had been no conviction and sincerity when he had delivered them over his shoulder. No, it was not normal to have such important discussions end so abruptly and randomly. And what did he mean, fitted for robes? Hermione decided she'd be damned before she allowed Harry Potter to escape explanation so easily.

It turns out that she was damned. By the time she reached the bottom step, George was rocking the baby in his arms, and told her in a cooing voice that Harry had already left.

She had found Draco sitting in a corner, farthest away from the window. It was as if he was fearful of being seen, despite his earlier bravado. That, or he was still deplorably shy of sunlight.

He told her, in an uncomfortable voice, that she had an interesting child. Hermione felt that perhaps polite manners instilled in him had forced him to make the odd compliment.

Draco then gave an odd look to George, who was pacing between the kitchen and the foyer. "Where is the father?" he asked neutrally.

Hermione, still standing, refused to feel faint at the question. In a steady, even voice that did not escape George's admiration, she simply replied, "He'll be back soon."

xoxox

Harry knew it was all business, and there was no reason to be uncomfortable...but, really, the last time somebody's hand had been that close to...his person...that somebody had been female and fifty percent tequila.

He was glad to rush out of Malkin's as soon as possible. Despite his veiled hints, fidgeting, and then not so veiled hints, it took him most of afternoon to acquire a suitable amount of suitable clothes for his new job.

Harry shook his head as he flew to Hogsmeade. He didn't even like thinking that phrase. New job. Blech. Harry spent a few minutes wandering the small town, renewing acquaintances with the shopkeepers, before leaving his broom with Rosemerta and walking to Hogwarts.

Then again, he reflected, Remus had told him to go sooner. Remus had said that one could not go to the tailors at three and expect a new wardrobe by supper. Remus was an ass.

For Harry had arrived at two thirty, and now, only thirty minutes before supper–at least by Hogwarts' time–Harry did have a new wardrobe.

Well, half a wardrobe really, but Harry refused to tell Remus that. Upon hearing that tonight he was to be formally introduced to the school, that disturbingly personal tailor had decided to make these robes especially marvelous.

Green. "To match his eyes." It was not that Harry particularly hated his dark green set of robes. He felt rather like a bean stalk, but a dashing one at that. No, it was just that he was tired of hearing that phrase. Faintly, he wondered if his mother ever grew tired of having her eyes compared to asparagus. Then again, his mother never knew a red haired twin who offered such strange compliments...

As he neared the school, a horrible, tightening knot had formed in his gut, and Harry hated to think it was nerves. How many times had he eaten supper at this school? A billion, at least. Simply because he was a substitute professor this time did not mean he was growing anxious. It did not mean that his nerves were frayed. It did not mean that he was tightly wound...

As soon as he entered the doors, Harry Potter's trousers were wet.

And, no, he did not lose control of his bladder due to outrageous timidity.

"Fuck it all!" he growled, staring up at Peeves, who was still armed with his water balloon ammunition. Before the poltergeist could launch another well-aimed attack, Harry pointed up with a threatening finger. "Do you want to be exorcized, do you Peeves? You're not going to heaven, I'll tell you that much. Go on, throw another one, I dare you. Because I'll summon the clergy in two seconds, I swear to god I will! I'll have the power of Christ compelling your arse to hell before you could even think of soaking my crotch again, do you hear me?"

And that was how Harry Potter saved further crotches from further soaking at Hogwarts for at least three weeks.

A few stray students–why weren't they somewhere else? Harry wondered grouchily–stared at him with wide eyes at he stalked to Dumbledore's office. Perhaps it had been a bit of overreaction, threatening the slow spirit like that, but really. It was bad enough to have that area's personal space invaded all for the sake of fashion and dress code. It was really too much to have that area invaded and then waterlogged.

There was a tiring "welcome back" conversation with Dumbledore, and then a more annoying "I'll keep an eye on you" sort of look from Dumbledore, and then an embarrassing arm-in-arm escort to the dining hall enforced by Dumbledore, all of which quite convinced Harry he was going to hate his first ever employer.

Remus looked amused by the ceremonious escorting, and Harry would have cheerfully drowned in him the butter beer if not for the reaction of his future students.

A few of said students failed to notice just who had walked in on the arm of their headmaster, and so the handsome catch was forced to clear his throat to capture the full attention of all hungry pupils.

"A few announcements, if you please. As you all know, Professor Lupin has been overburdened with two subjects. Professor Potter, here," Dumbledore began, with a look towards Harry, who was already sitting in his seat. That annoyingly twinkly gaze was suggesting that Harry stand, and Harry, being in an anti- twinkles sort of mood, clearly refused to do so. It was only when Remus pulled the chair from out of him and gave Harry a stern look that the new professor sullenly stood quickly and seated himself once more.

"Professor Potter shall be teaching Defense against the Dark Arts for the rest of the school year. More importantly, the chicken curry is fantastic tonight, so I hope you all partake."

Typical Dumbledore fashion, Harry believed as the students stared at him with a few seconds of silent awe. Then, when the waves of applause and cheers came, Harry whispered to Remus the suggestion of a muting spell. Remus said that Dumbledore banned such teaching methods back when Harry's father had been a student. Harry liked to think there was some sort of cause-and-effect there.

The loudest table of all was Gryffindor. For some reason, Harry was faintly annoyed by his own house. They were looking absurdly proud of themselves, as if they had some how accomplished this feat of employment. It reminded him of those obnoxious "We've got Potter!" cries from his first year. Sincerely, Harry hoped that this new arrogance was a recent development, and that he hadn't been apart of something so mortifying. Remus has suggested earlier that he feared some form of nepotism to his former house. Now Harry found that fear extremely unfounded.

While he stuffed his face with chicken curry–and it was fantastic, god damn that unerringly correct employer–Harry silently noticed two other individuals at the professors' table. The new substitute merely shook his head. Wood and Jordan actually looked pleased with their extended stay. Harry was willing to bet his fortune that Remus had used some sort of brainwashing spell.

Speaking of brainwashing...well, it couldn't be helped. And, really, it wasn't as if a few days of ignorance would kill the ferret–though, really, that would have been an unexpected boon. Harry smirked at the thought of Draco Malfoy expiring from an overly hollow head. Like a little porcelain doll. Like a little porcelain doll, pale and frilly, and cold–

"Any reason your smiling sadistically at your apple clafoutis aux abricots?" Remus asked him pointedly.

Harry looked at his colleague–blech–and simply grinned. "Bless you."

Remus rolled his eyes. "Harry, I meant–"

"I know, I know," Harry laughed to himself, wishing for all the world for one of his best friends to be present. Of course, one was sort of dead, and the other wished him dead, so such a scenario would not be entirely pleasant...

"Before you wolf down the rest of your meal..." Remus stopped with the realisation of his mistake, rolled his eyes, and leaned back with crossed arms.

"Go on," Harry encouraged, amusement rich in his tone.

"Not until you make your joke."

"Can't," Harry decided generously, "there's simply too much to choose from. Besides, picking on you is no pun."

Remus actually winced. "Harry, I hope you don't plan to teach with that horrid thing you call a sense of humour. Students can't learn proper defense if they're trying to stuff their ears."

"And you say I'm bad at jokes?"

"No, I'm merely observing the tragedy that is hereditary humour. More to the point, Harry, after you're done eating without any semblance of civilised upbringing–"

"I think you're forgetting who had brought me up," Harry reminded him. "I had to move fast at the table, or risk having Dudders gnawing at my elbow."

"Lovely imagery, Harry, but stop interrupting me. Don't you know how to respect your elders?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "No," he answered after some contemplation. "I suppose I don't. I mean, I guess I respect Dumbledore, but he's older than dirt, and who knows if you'll live that long–"

"After supper," Remus said impatiently, "we'll retire to my office and–"

"I swear to god, if you're going to give a me a lesson of 'respecting my elders' I'll cry rape."

"Do you want to be beaten in front of all your students?" Remus demanded. "Is that what your goal is tonight? Go on, say one more word, Harry, I dare you..."

Harry, too amused by Remus' redness and their disturbingly similar choice of threats, merely smiled with wide eyes and gave an innocent shrug.

"I'm going to give you the lesson plan. It's a loose schedule, and you may change it as you see fit, but keep in mind that the fifth years are–"

"No need," Harry declared, finishing his dessert and pushing away from the table. Though he made no noise as he did so, many heads swivelled to observe him. Professor Potter blithely ignored the attention as he stretched beside the perplexed potions professor. "I've already taken the lesson plan and owled it back to Number Twelve. I just hope George hasn't burned it or anything yet."

Remus frowned. "You've already taken it."

"Yes. Just how old are you, any way, to be going deaf already?"

Remus, always the more mature, promptly stood and flicked Harry's ear. While the younger clutched the offended spot with a pained glare, Lupin continued. "How can that be possible? My door was locked."

Harry released his grip, although the pain had not lessened, because he decided it was decidedly unmanly to show so much anguish for such a small, stinging, excruciating injury. "Uh...yeah. It was."

"So then how did you..." Remus pursed his lips and quickly flicked Harry's other ear. "What the hell did you do to my door?"

"Nothing," Harry cried defensively. With a pout, he quickly gathered a few bread rolls and wrapped them in a napkin. One always grew hungry on the road, after all. After slipping them into his pocket, the boy bravely faced that Torturer of Ears. "Besides, why are you worrying about your door when there's a hole in your wall?" Harry asked cheekily, before vanishing.

Harry laughed smugly to himself as he appeared within Number Twelve. That had been one little condition he had not shared with Remus. Dumbledore, that blessed man, had understood Harry's need to maintain and improve Number Twelve. Such maintenance required special permission to apparate to and fro, for Harry, "too haunted by memories," did not like the idea of staying at Hogwarts like a real professor. He was only a substitute, after all. Surely, there was no need to actually live at the school.

Imagining Remus' surprised expression, and feeling rather satisfied about it, Harry happily set the still warm bread rolls on the table. Finally. Harry glanced around the darkened rooms, and smiled. A chance to eat without being ogled, without being criticized, without competing–

"What's that smell?"

Quickly, just as George strolled in, Harry grabbed all five rolls and licked the tops as much as possible. Then he set down the food with a triumphant smile.

George observed this smile, worried for Harry's sanity, shrugged, and then sauntered over to swallow a roll with minimal mastication.

"Are you mad?" Harry demanded, attempting to guard the rest of his horde. He had whisked the precious cargo in his arms and was attempting to distance himself from George. The Weasley, undeterred by a little thing called greediness, calmly followed Harry around the table, resulting in a bizarre cat and mouse chase in the dark, cramped kitchen.

"What?"

"That thing you ate was marinated in my saliva!"

"So? Surely, after everything we've shared, saliva is nothing."

"Everything we've shared? What the hell are you talking about?"

Of course, George had been referring to their furtive doings concerning a fugitive and a little brother. Still, he gave Harry a hurt look and asked plaintively, "What? You don't remember our magical night together?"

"I'm a bloody wizard! Every night is a magical night!"

"I do hope that does not refer to your loneliness, you perv," Hermione commented as she strolled in.

Harry's eyes widened. "What are _you _doing here?"

"You told me to make a list."

Harry could not decide which surprised him more. The fact that she stayed for hours on end, or the fact that she had actually obeyed his sarcastic instructions. Unfortunately, his shock had been so immense that he stopped, and George managed to snatch two more rolls from Harry's arms until he was shoved away.

Once George had been sent away to check on Lawrence–all the while complaining that he was far too busy house sitting to look after her offspring–Harry ate slowly and contemplatively. The animosity had not evaporated, not entirely. But the desire to roar and thunder at one another was long gone, for they both realised the futility of it. Today's disagreement had been so repetitive it had been inflammatory to the lungs. A rerun of such circular debating would only cause them to go to bed angry, something one should always avoid, Harry reflected. He didn't know why one had to avoid it, but it sounded like good advice anyway.

"That is twenty two chews for that last bite, Harry," Hermione noticed calmly. She was right, for it was the last of the stolen bread, and Harry wanted to savour it to the very last crumb. His friend has seated herself across from him, posture straight and eager, nauseatingly familiar to her eager-student attitude. Harry sorely hoped there would be no students like her in this new job of his.

She spoke. Hermione was not a mind reader, Harry knew that. But she was so scarily intelligent that she was pretty damn close.

"Why didn't you tell me that you were teaching at Hogwarts?" she asked pointedly. Harry licked his thumb and was idly picking up the crumbs off the bare table. Swiftly, his eyes slid forward and viewed a piece of paper on which she had scribbled some queries. Damn it. It appeared that she had filled the entire page...oh shit, and the back too!

"I'm not so much teaching, yet," Harry answered lightly. "I've only been presented."

"But why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't feel like talking to you," he shot back.

"All right, all right, no need to get testy. And don't–" she ordered just as he opened his mouth, "don't make a dirty joke."

Harry blinked owlishly. "How on earth can one make a dirty joke about the word 'testy'?"

"Shut up. Did you use the same spell that Draco had used on me?"

She appeared very factual about it, no trace of hurt nor anger flitting through her features as she spoke the words. Harry didn't know whether to be impressed or disturbed. In any case, he answered easily, for Harry had no qualms for the deed. "Yes. Except better, of course. More precise. I didn't go chopping and erasing as recklessly as he had–"

"But I found no scars on his arms," Hermione argued smoothly, apparently unperturbed by Harry's casual boasting. "I mean, of course, there were scars, but they were simply battle scars. There had been nothing of what I have." Hermione raised her sleeve and Harry frowned at the tell tale pale, lines of her skin.

"I found a better place to draw blood," he answered tonelessly.

"Where?"

Harry tilted his head. "One could interpret it as a compliment to you." When she only gave an impatient look, he shrugged. "His heart. I drew the blood from his heart. Surprised? Yes, I was as well. I had been half expecting to cut and find a solid block of ice."

"No, that is not the reason. I mean, isn't that dangerous? Blood from the heart?"

"Considering it's Malfoy, yes, I hope so. Oh, don't look at me like that. I'm a wizard you know. A little cut to a little heart isn't too fatal with magic."

"And you? Where are the marks on you?"

Harry shifted uneasily. Strange how he fidgeted when facing a question that did not cast a guilty light his way. "I don't have any."

"You don't–how is that possible? Surely, you did the spell last night?" Harry nodded nonchalantly. "So there must be scars."

"I heal easily," Harry answered simply. He then nodded to her list. "Next one, if you please."

Hermione regarded him for a long moment, knowing that there was a secret she had a right to know, as a best friend. And, if not for this morning's conversation, he would have told her. But, judging by that challenging look in his eyes, Harry was not willing to share whatever strange condition allowed him to heal so quickly.

"How did you capture him?"

"God, isn't that a dramatic word?" he laughed, but found himself alone in his enjoyment. Once more, Hermione was in her motorized-learning mode, and would not stop until all curiosity had been satisfied. Easing his collar, Harry drawled in a way that seemed designed to irk her, "It has been windy lately."

Inwardly, Hermione was simultaneously screaming at and choking Harry Potter. Outwardly, she sat with a politely curious expression, merely waiting for him to elaborate. Was this how it was going to be? She wondered to herself. Every conversation a combat, every word a weapon? Neither wanted to hurt each other, not really...but it was satisfying, oh so satisfying, to niggle at each other, just a little bit. Just enough to remind each other, You are wrong.

"Owls," Harry continued indifferently, leaning his chair back precariously. Back and forth, back and forth he moved as Hermione, with the patience of a cool, admirable saint, merely sat across from him. "Owls, no matter how skilled...they can become lost, in such weather. Ministry owls, for example. Tell me, just how did you manage to make a good impression on Prewett?"

Hermione did not answer. Not only did she not know the answer, but also she was far too busy swallowing acidic words of impatience to speak nicely.

"He was already writing a congratulatory letter when George and I arrived. All that was necessary was a distraction and a post script. Not much. Originally, it was something about Larry's health, and concern...but then I realised that something so unrelated to you would not provide ample bait. I had to change it to some imaginary illness concerning _you_. A normal person sometimes forgets how to think like an evil Death Eater."

He was waiting for her indignant correction, for the "former." Hermione understood, but only partially, why he was goading her like this. Harry was sometimes...well, most of the time, a little boy at heart. When hurt, he lashed out to the easiest and vulnerable. Also, according to George, Harry wasn't acclimating to his new work place with a pleasant smile. Anybody forced into labour would be a mite grumpy.

But, truly, there was no easily discernible reason to continuously bait her and tease her. Perhaps the only thing to blame was pure Harry-ness. Perhaps, when it came to being an arse, Harry Potter had a natural talent for it. In light of such a fact, it was difficult to understand why Draco and Harry did not get along.

Disappointed by her lack of reaction, Harry continued his tale without any further teasing. Leaning forward, he answered sufficiently. "All it took was a sanction from the Ministry to temper with the weather just a bit. They didn't even blink at the reason. I mean, really, who flies kites in such cold?"

Although it seemed to be a purely rhetorical question, Hermione answered absently. "Fred mentioned something of doing so the other day."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Why the hell did Father Christmas get Fred a kite?"

"You only say it like that because the imaginary holiday icon gave you a sail boat," Hermione told him flatly.

Harry sulked with crossed arms. "Every pond, lake, and puddle in the kingdom has been frozen for weeks!"

Hermione allowed herself a small, amused smile. "So?" she asked, more warmth in her interrogation. "All it took was a fake letter about my fake illness lost in the fake weather to make Draco Malfoy return to England?"

"No," Harry contradicted with a smile. "The letter was real. The post script was fake."

"I stand corrected," Hermione replied with a roll of her eyes. And for a few moments, she said nothing, and Harry's sudden laugh was oddly explosive in the silence.

"You find that flattering, don't you?" he asked with wide eyes.

"Not flattering, really," Hermione corrected thoughtfully. "Just...logical. Of course, with the vastness of both the world and populations, it would have been impossible for the Ministry to find him. But you thought of what they hadn't. You lured Draco back."

"Is that a compliment?" he asked her warily.

"It's merely an observation. How many owls were sacrificed, then, for the sake of this plot?"

"Just one. One didn't return, like all the others, so we assumed Malfoy had caught word of it."

"And?"

"And the rest is history." Clearly, that was all Harry had to say on the matter. Hermione narrowed her gaze in speculation, and with a resigned sigh, moved onto the next question.

"How long will it last? His state of mind, I mean to say."

Harry gave a smile that was not quite pleasant. "As long as I wish it."

Hermione did not respond with the same cheer, and stared at Harry unflinchingly. "All right, then, Harry. How long do you wish it?"

"I'm not a monster, whatever you may think," he answered, still smiling, though not quite as jovially as a few seconds prior. "As much as that bastard deserves some long lasting punishment, I won't be the one to give it. As soon as he's outlived his usefulness, the spells will stop. After Ron's back, I wouldn't touch him for all the magic in the world." Harry gave a shrug, and the action implied all that usually accompanied a shrug, and nothing more. There was no malice, no prepared viciousness with Harry's carelessness. He thought no more of Draco than one thought of a taxi cab. Worth his attention only when it provided something useful.

It should have made her feel better, the fact that Harry would not take advantage of Draco's forgetfulness. It did not even occur to Harry to fill his damaged mind with lies and stories that would have certainly kept Draco at a distance from Hermione. It should have eased the tightening in her heart, made the horrible crush go away.

And yet...the hollowness remained. True, it would not last. And true, it was all for the greater good...

But how? How could have Draco forgotten?

Logic told her how. Harry's power, spells, blood...

But logic did not dispel the languishing sting. A small, immature, childish, and hurt part of her protested, saying that if he loved her, if he _truly loved _her, he would not have let something so inconsequential as magic to erase it.

_Oh god_, Hermione thought suddenly, expression growing even wearier as a new thought occurred to her. If this was what Ron felt...

It was best not to trod down that bleak road. Seizing any reason to wipe that irksomely concerned expression off Harry's face, she took a deep breath and said, "You never really justified it, you know. All I've heard is that it's all for Ron; not that it's fair."

Predictably–goodness, he was such a child sometimes–Harry was immediately set on the defense, leaning back from her with a curled lip and his chin thrust out challengingly. Hermione was faintly worried that he would challenge her to a duel or something equally immature.

"I never said it was fair," Harry bit out. "And I never claimed what I did would be right. I warned you, didn't I? You can't stay this hateful towards me, Hermione, because you promised you wouldn't. You promised me, Hermione."

"I did," she agreed in a placating tone. She spoke, he noticed, like a distracted, hassled mother, and he wasn't entirely sure if he was amused or annoyed that she used this manner with him. "We're still friends, Harry. Quarreling friends, but friends nonetheless."

Despite its deliverance, the words were the unexpected medicine to the night's ailed mood. Perhaps even Harry did not realise it, but Hermione did notice how his unfriendly remarks, his evocative comments gradually trickled out of their conversation. Soon, he did not mind Hermione's self-invitation to Number Twelve.

"Good luck convincing Mrs. Weasley," he warned her.

"Oh, I've already spoken to her. I promised her George would help me as much as possible, and that somebody has to keep house while you are away. Speaking of which, how will this Bahamas business hold up if the entire student body of Hogwarts has already seen you?"

"Please," Harry scoffed, "nobody listens to children. Besides, if I notice some sign of doubt from the reporters in the tropics, I'll send George as my look a-like or something equally brilliant."

"To teach or to romance Poppy?"

"Good question. Which do you think is more fatal?"

"Don't tell me Harry Potter is afraid of some children?"

"Afraid? Hardly. Immensely annoyed? Yes, definitely. Good god, if you had only seen them today Hermione. I'm starting to think there'll never be another Gryffindor victory, judging by the skinny whelps who are there now."

"Well if that isn't a case of the pot calling the kettle black, I don't what is–"

"Don't be racist, Hermione, I'm talking about something serious. And, do you know, that Remus will be monitoring me? As if I needed guidance? The audacity! Bad enough he's enslaving me, he's got to make sure the forced labour is going according to plan."

"You're being paid, Harry. It's not enslavement. May I ask you another question?"

"No."

"Right. So how are you keeping Draco here? What lie had you fed him?"

"Lie?" Harry repeated with a laugh. "The wonderful part was that there was no need to fib on that part. Malfoy's past is already so checkered all we had to say was that the Ministry was contemplating an inquiry on a certain event."

"Which event?"

"Hell if I know. Malfoy seemed to find that enough reason to seek refuge here. Also, the fact that I might have lightly hinted my cooperation with the Ministry if he refused to assist me might have motivated him somewhat."

"Just a bit, I'm sure." Hermione, arguably one of the most well spoken witches of her age, would have naturally offered more. But, in truth, her mind was working a bit too swiftly for her mouth to follow.

It was nearly inconceivable. She did not want to insult Harry, not even in the privacy of her own mind, but really... She had not expected such cunning from Potter. Here and there, he had sprinkled a few fabrications, and the brilliance of it all was that he would not be caught in the web, a rare feat for such a prolific liar. So what if Prewett was ever to learn of Harry and George's scheme to add a post script to his letter? What harm was committed? And who cared if Harry Potter's request to tamper with the weather was not entirely truthful; nothing horrible came about except for a few disoriented birds. And if Harry caught Draco, stole his memories, and then lied to him about the reason behind the Ministry's warrant for his arrest...nobody truly minded, except for perhaps Hermione Granger–who had promised to remain Harry's friend no matter what.

Good god. How long had Harry schemed? How many hours had he invested in this scheme?

And what if it was a wasted investment? What if Ron...

"Any more questions?" Harry asked, yawning.

Hermione simply stared at him, unable to form the words. She didn't dare to mention her amazement, her near awe of him. She didn't want to see him offended, and nor did she want to see him flattered. One should not be proud of that sort of skill.

"So, now that you're staying here...won't it be awkward, with Malfoy around?"

"We're civil to one another, just as before."

"To which 'before' are you referring?"

"The days immediately following his betrayal to the Death Eaters," she answered after a pause. The little conversation she had had with him today, during Harry's absence, had given Hermione just enough clues to see what, exactly, Draco remembered. It made sense for Harry to begin his erasure there, at a time during which Draco had reason to work with the good side, but was not overly friendly with Granger just yet.

Hermione frowned, and stared at the wood grain of the table. "Harry," she spoke inquisitively, looking up. "Harry...how did you manage to be so precise? Was it Draco's research? He had to do the spell several times–"

"Oh," Harry chuckled, standing and stretching once more. Abruptly, Hermione was somewhat grateful that Mrs. Weasley was not present, for the woman would have surely scolded for hours upon Harry's haggard appearance. "That. Well, yes, both Lockhart and Malfoy's 'research' helped. But, you must remember one important thing, Hermione Jane Granger."

He waited, rather dramatically, in Hermione's opinion, until she had leaned forward to hear his hushed words.

"I am a better wizard. And I always have been."

Harry, too, had leaned forward. Using this proximity to advantage, Hermione reached up and gently placed her hands on either side of his head, gently moving her fingers through his hair.

"Funny," she noticed curiously, "your head doesn't _feel _bigger...yet I'm quite sure I read somewhere that both skull and ego expand proportionately..."

Annoyed, he batted her hands away and declared his intention to go to bed. Tomorrow, after all, was his first day of school.

xoxox

"Why'd you choose Harry?" a pert young girl asked him.

His first class was not to begin for another five minutes, and Harry felt a cold wave of surprise splash upon him. With deliberate nonchalance, Harry kept his head bowed over the lesson plan, and refused to look up. Perhaps it was not very charitable of him, but, technically, he was not obliged to listen to her until the class commenced.

"What?" he asked irritably.

"Your name is Harry James Potter. James is much more nicer, I believe. Harry is kind of...well, strange, don't you think?"

Harry hunched even more over the desk, hoping the action would convey his annoyance. What year was she? Better yet, who was she? One had to know the name, after all, before one assigned detention. Then Lupin's words echoed in his mind.

"You cannot punish every child who irritates you."

"Just the ugly ones," Harry had parried tiredly, for, truly, who knew that anybody was truly awake before nine?

"Shut up, Harry," was Remus' predictable response.

Was this one ugly? A rather devious part of his mind wondered.

Despite his obvious reluctance for conversation, the little girl continued. "Well, now that I see you in person, I think...well, I guess it suits you. Harry is kind of, well, kind of sexy, you know?"

Harry scrambled away from the desk. Good lord, she couldn't have been more than twelve! What sort of parents–

Harry's eyes narrowed.

"Jordan that is not funny!"

Instead of spying a blonde, blue eyed angel before the desk, Harry found one supremely irritating and girlishly giggling muggles studies professor, who had somehow changed in his voice to that of a little girl. If not for his sharp embarrassment, Harry would have been impressed and asked for the technique.

"Great shit," Professor Lee laughed, clutching his sides, "you should have seen your face–"

"Yeah, it's a shame I was too busy suffering the view of yours," Harry snapped, regaining his seat.

"Fred bet five sickles you would have agreed about the sexy comment."

"Fred is an arse. You are an arse. Everybody in this whole institution is an arse."

"Ahem, ahem. You're a part of this institution now," Oliver reminded him. His former captain had suddenly appeared in the door way, and was strolling towards them with boredom. Harry, if he was a good friend, would have pitied Lupin's decision to hire externally instead of asking Wood to fill the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. But, Oliver was dating his ex-girlfriend, and such status made Harry squash his pity and notice how unhealthily pale this muscular boy had become.

"Oh look everybody," Harry announced happily. "The King of Arses has arrived."

"Yeah, yeah," Oliver laughed. The pair of them lounged before Harry's desk; Jordan sat on the corner while Oliver sat on one of the student desks. Harry frowned, disliking how their bums were spreading their bum-germs all over his work environment. "Too bad this King lacks a royal sexy name, eh?"

"What?" Jordan contradicted, "you don't think 'a lover' is sexy?"

Oliver paused in his teasing to look at Jordan with a slight frown. "Why the hell are you pondering the sexiness of my name?" Oliver wanted to know.

"Will the both of you go away?" Harry demanded. "I'm trying to be professional here!"

"Well, you're not off to a good start," Jordan told him sympathetically. "You're in my class room."

Harry laughed sarcastically when he paused, observed his surroundings, and swore to unprecedented heights of profanity as he gathered his materials and dashed out of the room. He made a mental note to thrash the wankers later.

The Gryffindor God thought that heavy door had never sounded quite as loud and ominous as it did now. He was breathing heavily as he quickly stepped down the aisle, and both breaths and steps echoed with absurd volume as the eyes followed his every move. This tardiness, this embarrassing silence...somehow felt familiar. Harry half expected Snape or somebody to deduct points.

The lesson plan fell with a heavy thud on the desk, and Harry hoped they would not notice his flushed cheeks. For some undefinable reason, he did not want to meet their eyes. What if they were silently worshiping him? Worse yet, what if they were not impressed at all, and only dead boredom rested in those gazes?

And why should they be impressed? Here he was, washed up hero, who was only present because some responsible adult had forced him to mature.

What was on the lesson plan? Oh yes. Warding off magically produced fire. So typical Remus, being sensible and safe and...

"Will somebody define the dark arts for me?" he heard a hard, deep voice demand sternly.

Then Harry jumped, and was so struck by the surprise of his own voice that he sank in his seat.

The students...what were they again? Judging by that one girl's face, they were obviously less than seventeen years old. But, then again, that boy had facial hair to rival Dumbledore's beard, so...

"Well, we're only fifth years," that furry boy spoke, "so it's not like we've had a lot of experience."

There was a short silence during which Harry pushed and worked a few figures in his head. "But you lot were third years when...that happened."

"Students third year and younger were not allowed to fight," another boy countered. "We were the medical staff."

"Don't look so surprised," that young girl laughed. "You were part of the group to make that decision."

Harry frowned. There had been far too many decisions made during The Dark Year to remember. Besides, these midgets were becoming slightly informal, something Harry was sure Hermione did not allow.

"Well, back to the original question. What do you think, Robert?"

The boy in the back, who had been slouching in a drowsy manner, snapped to attention. "My name is Kevin."

Harry rolled his eyes. Such insolence. "Robert is the natural abbreviation of Kevin. Answer the question."

"I'm sorry...I didn't hear."

"Well, brilliant," Harry snapped. "You could be hexed and killed all because of your wonderful deafness."

"The war's over," Kevin replied defiantly. "Nobody'd hex me."

"Oh, believe me, with that attitude, I'd–"

"The Dark Arts," a girl in the front cut in impatiently. Harry thought she might have been raising her hand for some time, but couldn't remember. "Are devices and spells designed to inflict harm upon others." She bit her lip, and added uncertainly, "With malicious intent."

Harry relaxed. As annoying as it had been to have a Hermione Granger as a peer, he found it blessedly convenient to have an overachiever as a student. That ensured that there would be no blank stares and awkward silences whenever he asked questions.

"It's good of you to add that last part," he commented. "For, if magical harm was enough to define Dark Arts...then one would be forced to conclude that the Ministry is simply infested with Death Eaters." Harry had spoken flippantly and truthfully, and was surprised to hear a laugh out of the lot.

"So what you're saying is, as long as I have a good reason to cause injury, then I am not dabbling in the Dark Side?" that bearded boy asked.

"I am merely giving a word of advice before I pick up where Lupin left off. Ascertain who is your enemy before you act against him. Oh, and shave your beard. You look thirty."

All in all, Harry decided as the class erupted once more into giggles, this teaching business was not so bad. It was frustrating as hell that some of them could not perform these easy tasks within the first three tries, but that, he guessed, was what school was for.

xoxox

There was no need for her, obviously. True, the fuzzy things growing in the loo and in the kitchen were certainly not deliberate decorations, but those were bearable. The general uncleanliness of the house was bearable as well, considering the occupants. The addition of a young woman and her child was nothing more than a nuisance.

But, to Hermione, it was absolutely vital for living. Draco was here. Here! Their time apart had made her realise his flaws, his mistakes, his general selfishness with more clarity than ever before. Yet, simultaneously, their time apart had made her ache for him, miss his touch, long for the sound of his voice with more pain than ever before. She did not wish to rekindle whatever he had left behind, because, obviously that was a broken melody. But there was still something left, something beautiful and lovely, waiting to be rebuilt. Yes, she hated what he had done. Harry reminded her of that atrocity. But she didn't hate him so much that she refused to spend time with him. Even if that time was spent in awkward silence.

Hermione had initially hoped–and feared–that moving into Number Twelve would increase the communication between Draco and herself. A part of her wished that a little conversation and a few accidental hints would gently nudge Draco's mind back into alignment. Yet another part of her knew that such a revelation would result in the prevention of somebody else's realignment. A "somebody else" whom she loved just as much...and differently.

She sighed as she bathed Lawrence in the kitchen sink just before lunch. Why was it that some girls wished to be torn between two men? It was certainly disheartening business. Then George strolled in, asking her if she was preparing Tender Baby for their midday meal, and successfully rescued her from one of her "fits."

Any expectation of reminders were crushed when, after seeing Harry off and forcing George to take a shower, Hermione learned that Draco was not the most social creature. No, she hadn't learned–simply remembered. He refused, through the locked door of his chamber, her polite invitation to breakfast. When Lawrence had found George's disillusionment spell none too amusing, and consequently bawled so loudly the heavens shook, Malfoy did not even bother to inquire the reason. All day long, during her hours of tidying, reading, and governing of two little boys, the fugitive remained within his room.

Finally, when she had prepared the supper and waited for Harry to return, Hermione sat at the kitchen table with worry. Lawrence and George were playing in the attic. Malfoy was...being Malfoy. And Hermione...

"Hermione has turned into a housewife," she sighed miserably.

As trying as it was, she sort of missed her position at Hogwarts. At least she was of use. At least she was productive. Although she had assured him that he would grow to love educating the masses, Hermione sincerely hoped that Harry would detest the occupation. To have Lawrence grow independent from her and then to have nothing to do...to Hermione, it seemed irreversibly tragic.

A loud pop interrupted her dreary thoughts, and Harry looked around the clean, food-filled room with a smile. "God, Hermione. I ought to marry you or something."

"Oy, how do you know I didn't prepare supper?" George demanded, apparating as well, Lawrence sleeping in his arms.

"Did you?"

"No, but it was the principle of the matter."

Hermione automatically rose and gently took Lawrence from the twin's arms. It was not that she didn't trust George. It was just that she felt better, inside, when Lawrence was in her arms.

That better feeling vanished when, not a split second later, Harry lifted Lawrence from Hermione's arms, and seated himself at the table with a sigh. "Never be a wise arse, Larry," Harry advised his god child. Lawrence, in response to the sage advice, merely began grasping ineffectually at Harry's tie. "Because the professors will threaten to hex you and you will never pull a girl."

"Harry! Don't speak to Lawrence like that!"

"Oh, I suppose I'm stereotyping. If, at the age comes, you feel you'd prefer wooing blokes instead of females, still avoid being a wise arse–"

"How touching," a new voice drawled. The three turned, and found Malfoy standing in the door way. "Potter's already attempting to convert the innocent."

"In case you haven't noticed, fugitive," George spoke pleasantly, "we're all pro-Potter people here, so your little jokes and little insults will win no audience."

"Boys," Hermione sighed, "let's try to have a peaceful dinner."

"You may," Draco spoke up with a shrug. "I just thought I'd save you the trouble of inviting me. I'd like to have supper in my room."

"And are we your bloody servants?" Harry echoed mockingly.

"I'm just your bloody guest," Draco shot back. "Besides, I didn't expect her to come up with the food. That's why I'm down here, you stupid arse."

"It's a bit of an insult," George reflected as Hermione absently grabbed a bowl to fill it with stew. "That you'll only grace us with your pasty presence when you're just short of dying of starvation."

"You expected something more pleasant?" Harry snorted. "He's Malfoy. He lives to insult."

Draco obviously found that lacking wit, for he merely rolled his eyes and silently accepted the food Hermione handed him. She kept a grip of the tray, however, and spoke in a low voice. "You may stay and eat with us, you know. We won't bite."

"I wouldn't mind so much if you did," he spoke flippantly, and noticed Hermione's surprise. He back pedaled with a somewhat apologetic air. "Oh..right. Habit. It was fun, in the old days, upsetting you."

"So glad you found amusement at my expense," she murmured, and released her grip on the tray.

He seemed to think her response irking, for, once more, Malfoy rolled his eyes and gave a nod to the rest of them. He then silently walked up the stairs and shut the door with a quiet click.

"Look at the bright side," George said pleasantly as he fastened Lawrence's "Spit Happens" bib around the baby's neck. It was far too large for a one month old baby, the Weasley learned, so he shrugged and tied the material under his own chin. "Only a few more days."

"And then what is to happen?" Hermione asked sharply. "Are you two going to turn him in?"

"Hermione Granger," George gasped, "the very suggestion! Have you seen the profits from the novel? I have no need for the reward money, thank you very much."

"When we're done with him," Harry interrupted earnestly, "he's free to go. Where, I don't know and I don't care. Chances are he'll find another place to hide, have some of the memories return, and attempt to come back here...for you."

"And me? What happens to me after you're 'done with' me?"

"Don't say it like that, Hermione. You're different. You may stay as long as you like...I may even force you to stay, considering how you made that furry, green rubbish disappear from the bath tub. But Draco Malfoy will not be a welcome visitor in this house, so long as I live."

"And after Ron lives," Hermione stated flatly.

"Yes. So long as I live and after Ron lives, Malfoy may not enter. You two may arrange trysts in the park, if you like."

"Now, now," George chimed in with some alarm. "Children, if you have nothing nice to say...damn, I always stopped listening when mum started that phrase."

Harry and Hermione regarded one another with thinly veiled annoyance when they finally began supper. Hermione was unable to maintain her peeved air, however, when feeding Lawrence, and had to settle for occasional glares and scowls.

She wished to speak to him, with further questions, but soon learned that Harry meant to return to Hogwarts, and oversee detention.

"It had been such a little hole," Harry complained whilst George nodded sympathetically. "And I'm sure Lupin spent no more than five minutes repairing. Now they're punishing me by further exposure to the little barbarians. They were cheeky buggers." Harry was emitting these whines in between bites of dessert. "Asking me where the hell my lightning scar went! As if my scar relocation is any of their affair!"

"Come to think of it, what the hell did happen to your lightning scar?" George wondered curiously.

Harry dismissed the genuine query as he stood. "It's not important. Don't wait up."

Hermione opened her mouth to command a longer stay, but Harry was gone. She supposed it would have been somewhat selfish to forestall necessary juvenile punishment in the name of curiosity, and only resolved to stay up and corner the little brat. Considering Lawrence's random water works, chances were she would wake up any way.

George was not much of a house sitter, Hermione thought to herself, for as soon as he had washed the dishes, he had left to meet Fred at some undoubtedly unwashed pub. Leaving Hermione alone. With Lawrence. And Lawrence's father.

In theory, it sounded about right. A mother, a father, and their peaceful infant, settling in for the night. How Hermione wished she could live in theory.

For Lawrence was her only room mate, and when she had passed by Draco's door, a strange feeling had passed through. She felt as if she should knock. See if wished to talk about anything because, as her own past has taught her, losing one's memory tended to induce a great deal of confusion. Maybe even kiss him good night.

But no. Lawrence needed attending to, and he tended to be grumpy if not rocked for a certain amount of time before bed.

In theory, Hermione thought as she drifted to sleep, one hand stretched out to rock Lawrence's cradle. Mum and Dad couldn't have time together, because the child needed attention. Optimistically, they were a perfectly normal family.

xoxox

"Dad! Mum! What are you doing here?"

By mid afternoon, one and a half day away from Happy Day–as George had dubbed it–Hermione had been ready to scream with frustration. Malfoy did not even respond to her inquiry for breakfast. He did, however, throw a book at the door when she had knocked on it incessantly. Lawrence was giggling at every thing in sight at his loudest possible volume. George was not helping, for the pair sat in the hall way as George drew signs on Malfoy's door. She rescued her son from seeing an obscene stick figure when somebody knocked at the entrance. The visitors, never for a moment imagining they were not welcome, allowed themselves in.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" George asked his father, hastily erasing the impolite messages behind him. He turned to his mother. "And shouldn't you be..."

To suggest that she should be at home sounded like a physically dangerous thing to say. So George turned to his father once more, and asked:

"Shouldn't you be at work?"

The pair of them stood at the top step, while George and Hermione stood before Draco's door. The baby hammock sat between them, and George hoped it would serve as ample barrier should his parents prove too curious.

"Hello to you too, son," Arthur replied. "Do you know, judging by your manners just now, a perfect stranger would suspect you had been raised by wolves."

George turned to his mother. "Did you hear what he just called you?" he asked, furtively jerking his head towards his father's direction.

"George," Mrs. Weasley sighed. "I have no idea why you're so surprised. I told Ginny to owl you, and let you know that we were coming today."

George frowned darkly, obviously already plotting a revenge. "That little, freckled fiend," he muttered to himself, and even shook his fist menacingly at his little sister, wherever she was.

His bizarre behavior would have normally caused some suspicion from his parents if not for the presence of Hermione and Hermione's baby. Before the young witch could explain why George had plastered himself against Draco's door in an appallingly unsubtle manner, Mr. Weasley had asked for Lawrence, and then, much to Hermione's horror, tossed Lawrence in the air before catching him again. Molly and Hermione let out shrieks of protest, which only slightly drowned out Lawrence's delighted gurgles.

"Don't fuss," Arthur laughed. "I did this to my boys all the time."

"Oh, so Ginny was saved from being slammed into the ceiling?" George sniffed with crossed arms. "I'm beginning to suspect some favoritism here."

"Shut up, George," Mrs. Weasley ordered pleasantly as she kissed him hello. "Come on, get dressed."

"Why?"

"To celebrate Arthur's demotion," Mrs. Weasley exclaimed in surprise. "Honestly, I could have sworn I told Ginny to include that. She must have forgotten, for Fred was surprised as well...Of course, if you would be a good son and drop in once in a while, like Percy does–"

"Why would we celebrate dad's demotion?" George demanded.

"Because, with a demotion, I may spend more time lecturing you and your lack of visits," Arthur answered with a smile. "Go on, do as your mother said. Get dressed."

"I am dressed!"

"Get dressed again. Oh, and comb your hair," Mrs. Weasley advised, cooing and tickling Lawrence as Arthur held him.

"I did! Lawrence helped me, in fact."

"He did not, and do not lie to me," Molly sighed. "Hermione's here, and she will tell me if you have lied to me. Oh, of course, you're invited as well, Hermione–"

"Oh, thank you, but I'd rather not. I feel like staying in, for today. It's a bit chilly out, and Lawrence..."

There was no need to explain any further. Her words launched Molly on a rant of the dangers of chilly days and babies, while Arthur coerced his son into better grooming and attire. Within ten minutes, the Weasleys were gone, off to celebrate the career downgrade at a posh restaurant. Hermione observed them leave from the top step, and smiled. While it was exhausting to participate in the Weasley madness, sometimes it was fun to watch.

She jumped when the door swung open.

"Careful," Draco advised with a smirk. He looked at the child in her arms. "You'll drop it, and it's a long way down."

"Him," Hermione corrected quietly. It was unimaginable that, as a father, Draco was impervious to the bond of parent and child. Even after a thousand spells and a thousand instances of trauma, she would sense something familiar upon seeing Lawrence. "Lawrence is a boy."

Draco was irked by her correction, and only shrugged. "Yes, well, I should hope so. Lawrence is a terrible name for a girl."

It was not very funny, but Hermione generously decided to give a small laugh any way. It was a miracle to have him voluntarily leave the room when the sun was out. She would not blunder this event by being cold.

"I was about to have some tea," she lied warmly. "Would you care to join me?"

Perhaps she had infused too much friendliness into her tone. Draco regarded her strangely for one moment before nodding his acceptance, and followed her down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Hermione noticed, "Oh dear. I forgot his hammock."

Draco seemed to sense her intentions and hurriedly offered to fetch it for her. But Hermione was far too quick, and gently placed Lawrence in Draco's stiffly reluctant arms before turning away to find the tea.

"Support his head, Draco," Hermione advised amusedly as the contents steeped.

"It's...it's a rather large head," he noticed with a grimace. Hermione's heart sank, just a little bit, to see that he was not taking to the fatherly habits naturally. But the fact that he had not dropped Lawrence on the table like an infectious diseased animal was a good indication, at any rate.

"Babies have large heads, Draco," she told him with a smile. "I'm sure you had one as well, as an infant."

"If that is another inbred joke–" he began.

"It's not," she quickly assured him, surprised by his vehemence. Of course, in his mind, they were not even friends. They had not established any sort of friendship in which teasing and banter were allowed without fear of offense. In the days following his betrayal to the Death Eaters, Hermione had been more civil to him than the others had been. But it never surpassed lukewarm civility until a month or two later.

"He likes you." She offered the olive branch untruthfully, for Lawrence was giving no indication of partiality. In fact, her usually jubilant child was staring up at Draco with unwavering attention, and absently sticking out and then sucking in his little tongue at a tranquil pace.

"Does it ever blink?" Draco asked with an arched brow. In exasperation, Hermione reached forward and wiped away the drool sliding down Lawrence's chin. She didn't know why, but she had expected Draco to take care of that problem himself.

"Yes, he does," she retorted. "Honestly, Draco, have you never seen an infant up close before?"

"No. There was never any need. They seem, to me, like little drunk adults, only they smell better."

Well, if one was to try, one could interpret that as a compliment to Lawrence. And Hermione was always one to try, so she smiled and suggested they take tea in the sitting room.

"Unless you're still allergic to sunlight," she called over her shoulder, carrying the cups as Draco followed, still awkwardly supporting the baby.

"Is that an albino joke?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Draco was nonplused by her frankness, and hurriedly set the baby on a round cushion as soon as he entered the room.

"Draco," she scolded, scooping up Lawrence after she had pushed the father away. "For goodness' sake!"

"What?" Draco calmly took his seat and reached forward to retrieve his tea. "You mustn't coddle a child, Granger."

Considering the near arctic atmosphere in which he had been brought up, Hermione speculated that Draco's definition of "coddling" was prolonged eye contact.

"Lawrence is very young, Draco," she told him seriously, positioning the infant in her lap while she balanced her cup with one hand. "I highly doubt spoiling is a danger."

"When did I become Draco to you?" he asked coldly. "Last time I checked, I was simply Malfoy. Sometimes Mercurial Malfoy, if one was to listen to your mumbling words closely."

Hermione couldn't help but grin. At the time, she hadn't expected Draco to understand such a large word. This, however, was dangerous ground, and the smirk disappeared instantly. Hermione looked around the sparse room in distraction, bouncing Lawrence on her lap as she did so. Oh god, what was she to say?

"I'm calling you Draco because we were lovers once upon a time, and you have a great deal of catching up to do when it comes to changing diapers."

Oh, if only she possessed the inconsideration to say that! But stupid things like compassion and delicacy stood in her way and held her tongue. Damn it.

"Don't you remember?" she asked softly, settling her eyes on something safe. His teacup.

For some reason, Hermione had forgotten her hatred of the question. She braced herself for a scathing remark, but was surprised to hear nothing but a clink of china.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, apparently unaffected.

"Draco," she spoke again, this time meeting his eyes in surprise. "I know...I know you've forgotten–"

"I haven't forgotten anything," he snapped, and quickly reached forward to slam the untouched tea upon the table. "It's crap, by the way."

Hermione's soft eyes blazed into fury at the petty insult. "Well! So sorry that it's not up to royal standards! I'm busy raising your–your–you and the other boys, so I haven't time to improve my culinary skills."

"Nobody asked you to be my mother, Granger," he responded spitefully.

"And thank god for that! I enjoy sanity, thank you very much," she retorted.

Draco seethed silently, nostrils flaring as he confusedly weighed his next choice of words. Actually, he looked ready to hex her, if not for his lack of wand. Not to mention the fact that his innocent new born child was sitting in her arms. And clapping his pudgy hands in a blissfully ignorant manner.

"We're friends," she told him shortly, while he scrambled for words_. More than friends_, her heart whispered, and she told it to shut up.

"Really," he said disinterestedly, deciding conversation was safer for his image than pitiful retaliation.

"Yes. Admission of memory gaps won't kill you, you know."

"It's best that I don't try and prove that theory wrong."

Hermione pursed her lips. Yup. That was all Draco was going to say on the matter. That was the closest thing she'd get to a "Yes, you're right." It didn't make sense! Amnesia wasn't a "weakness," as he undoubtedly viewed it. It was maddening, certainly, but it wasn't a shameful deformity.

But such words of logic remained on the tip of Hermione's tongue and no further. He was simply thinking in his normal Draconious way, and she loved that way, even if it included a warped sense of morals and baffling heights of pride.

"To reiterate," she began again calmly, "we're friends. We've been friends. Shortly after your..." She tilted her head. "I don't know what to call it really, without being too impolite."

"I like to call it Voldemort's Great Loss."

"Yes, you would, wouldn't you? In any case, after that, we worked together a great deal. Naturally, familiarity arose between us."

"Potter and I worked together a great deal as well," Draco argued suspiciously. "And no friendship formed."

Hermione gave undue attention to Lawrence's hair, rubbing the soft, fine locks absently. Before long, a ginger halo graced her son's head, and she had yet to find a suitable response. Oh dear, this was tricky. How could she explain why he could remember everything with crystal clarity but her? And how could she explain that, after the death of his mad hatter of a mother, his memory was utterly blank, and only she knew what had transgressed during those blanks?

It had been smooth sailing for Draco, in the past. Any question she asked during her stay at the manor was easily answered with lies. Here, she was attempting to tell him the truth without revealing the whole truth.

Ugh. Morals.

"Yes, well," she replied briskly, kissing Lawrence distractedly. Her son wrinkled his tiny nose in annoyance. "You and Harry had a good, strong hatred going. You two weren't about to let a little thing like cooperation ruin it."

"And us?" he hedged.

"And us...well, I wasn't silly like two teenage boys. With my version of cooperation, I learned to respect you. And vice versa."

"You think I respect you?" Draco scoffed. He had grown calm enough to reach for his tepid tea, and drank it despite it's earlier accusation of shitty-ness.

"You do," she told him firmly. "And you always have, I think. Which is why you've always been such a prick, because respect of a muggle born witch frightened you."

Draco's brow furrowed. "Tell me, in your boredom, do you concoct fantastically impossible ways of you and I becoming friendly?"

Hermione chuckled to herself. That all depended on his definition of "friendly."

"When I'm not popping out babies," she answered blithely. Lawrence, bored by a conversation full of adult matters and official words, was sinking into a cosy sleep. "Isn't he wonderful?" Hermione thought aloud.

"Yes," Draco agreed wryly. "The talent of drooling and falling asleep is in high demand these days."

Hermione corrected him earnestly. "You forget that he can do this as well." With her free hand, she opened and closed her palm in a rapid and jerky manner.

"Quick, call the Daily Prophet," Draco laughed. "Hermione Granger has birthed a prodigy."

_Did you hear that, Lawrence? _Hermione smile down at her slumbering son. _Daddy thinks you're a prodigy. Daddy doesn't know he's Daddy, but at least he thinks you a prodigy._

"It's good," she noted softly, "to hear you laugh."

Oh it was the wrong to say. Gone was the slightly easy demeanor that had cloaked Draco. Perhaps it was too familiar. Perhaps, she had allowed some of her sincere love seep into her tone. Whatever the reason, he did not like it. He did not lash out, nor offer a snappy insult. But the shuttering of his eyes, the tightening of his mouth, the everything...it was the wrong thing to say.

Suddenly he shifted, and fidgeted, and finished his tea with startling speed before standing to gaze out the window. Not too close to the sill, however, Hermione noticed. Like he had pointed out before, nobody saw the house. Yet he still feared discovery.

"Where do you plan to go?" she asked his back tentatively. "Once the ceremony is done. Harry says you will wish to relocate, most likely–"

"Which means he wishes me to relocate."

"Well...that's not the point. If you need help, Draco–"

He gave a extremely irritated noise, and, if Hermione was not mistaken, crossed his arms.

"My parents' house. They left it to me, and no one would think of–"

"But if we're friends," he argued, partially facing her. From what she could see, he was regarding her with suspicion. "Would not one suspect you and your assistance?"

Hermione cleared her throat and toyed with Lawrence's soft fingers. "People...the Ministry...well, the minister, as it were...they have a higher opinion of my morals than that."

Draco smiled blandly. "Prewett's off his head."

"That's open to debate," she answered evasively. "Draco?"

"Yes, Gra–Hermione?"

Good lord, she wasn't sixteen any more! It was silly that her heart fluttered in this absurd way simply because he had uttered her name.

"Will you tell me..." Hermione hesitated, and with just cause. The fact that he was speaking and gave a single chuckle was an immense victory. Chances were he was not willing to speak about anything condemning.

"Yes?" he prodded.

_Was that a consent_, her mind asked hopefully_. Probably not_, she thought as she observed his skeptical expression.

"About the event," she spoke carefully, "which caused the Ministry to investigate you now?"

"Don't you know?" he wondered. "Well connected to the Ministry, friend with the press–"

"Yes, yes," Hermione answered hastil, "but one never knows, of course, if the second hand accounts are true. It's best to hear straight from the source." Although it was vain to do so, she felt a little bit proud of her cleverness. There was no way that Draco could argue with that reasoning, even if it was all untruthful.

Draco turned to face her fully, those grey eyes scrutinizing her, weighing her merit. Hermione tried her best to appear demurely trustworthy, but, evidently, did not quite master the look. When Draco spoke, it was with that infuriating shrug that all males seemed to be capable of.

"The minister is mad, that's all. Reopening old wounds and such. He won't rest until every Death Eater is punished."

"Even the reformed ones?"

Draco smiled again, this time genuinely. "I never said I was reformed. I just switched sides."

"There's a difference?"

"Definitely."

"I sense a philosophical debate creeping upon us, Draco."

"Yes, and I see a devastating defeat in your future, Hermione," he parried arrogantly.

Harry loudly clunked down the steps. "Hermione?" he called loudly, strolling into the room. "I can't find George. He left his crayons in the attic–oh."

And with one syllable, the gossamer warmth between the two vanished pitifully. Draco stiffened, and regarded the newcomer lazily. Then, in an action designed to gall more than comfort, Malfoy strode to Hermione and sat beside her. Much closer than before.

That bastard! She thought suddenly as Harry's gaze narrowed. He was using her as an instrument of mass annoyance!

"Harry," she attempted genially. Her eyes raked over his attire, and found that he was still garbed in his professor's robes. "What are you doing here? There hasn't been an accident, has there?"

"I"m teaching dada, not potions," Harry informed her coolly. "Where's George, Hermione?"

"Ah, out to lunch, with his parents. Arthur's been demoted, and he's strangely happy about it–"

"You and Lawrence all right then, Hermione?' Harry asked, eyes apparently riveted to one half of the sofa.

"We're doing fine, Harry," Draco drawled. "Any reason you're home Harry? And using first names with disgusting repetition, Harry?"

"I wasn't addressing you," Harry shot back through clenched teeth.

"Obviously," Draco rejoined. "Though, good effort, trying to alienate me."

"Why try? The world's alienated you, Malfoy."

"Which is why I feel so blessed with your psychotic attention," Draco chirped with a sigh.

"Hermione," Harry said loudly and abruptly, causing the mother to jump with surprise. "May I speak to you privately, please?"

Funny, Hermione thought faintly, she had never encountered this problem when dating Ron. Once, her father had found them on the Granger porch, kissing...and then some...and the fear that had parted them then was nothing compared to the tremors seizing her now. Harry was not her father, obviously, and nor did he possess the authority to assume the substitute role.

So why did she hand Lawrence to the bewildered Draco, stand up, and meekly follow him out of the room?

Because she was chatting with Draco Malfoy, obviously. Sarcasm, that lovely, generous irony, had blurred away her silly nervousness. Everybody knew that speaking to that fugitive was worthy of Harry's rants. One of the seven deadly sins.

By the time he had walked out of the room and shut the door behind her, that silly fear had ebbed away instantly. Besides, the first words spewing from Professor Potter's mouth were not words of reproof.

She leaned back on the front door with crossed arms, placidly waiting for him to begin raving.

He turned to her, and widened his eyes. "Where's Lawrence?"

She motioned carelessly to the sitting room.

"You left Larry in there? You left my god child with the Death Eater? Hermione!"

Harry was ready to march back and rescue the poor, defenseless infant had not Hermione caught his robe and pulled back sharply. Potter stumbled without his usual grace.

"Don't be absurd," she scoffed as he regained his balance. "Draco knows how to watch a baby." _He knows how to support a baby's head, any way._

"Hermione! Death Eater! Death! Eat! Er! If a man is mad enough to go around eating death, just think of what opportunities a fresh, ripe baby brings!"

"Stop it, Harry, honestly, he's not a cannibal!"

"Just a necrophiliac," Harry retorted, deciding to take a lewd definition of the label. Hermione, as usual, ignored that immature remark.

" And what are you doing home any way?" she demanded, hands sliding onto her hips, subconsciously assuming her offensive stance.

Harry stared at the closed door with smouldering scrutiny before facing her. He held up a thick, leather bound book. "George's drawn obscene things in my lesson plan."

"And you came home to retrieve the second copy?"

"Second copy? What? No, I came home to beat him into a bloody pulp."

"Go back Harry. Obviously, that is no excuse to abandon your class–"

Harry made a dismissive noise. "It doesn't matter, Hermione, I used the immobulis–"

"_What_?"

"Well, just so I wouldn't have to worry about impromptu duels or anything while I was away," he explained soothingly. "Wish I used it here, as a matter of fact, considering what heathen activities you've engaged with himself–"

"Talking Harry, and having tea."

"You filthy little harlot," he accused superiorly. Hermione smiled and pointedly rolled her eyed with exaggerated emphasis. He gravely warned her about the danger of having her lovely, poo-poo brown orbs of falling out with too much of that disrespectful motion.

"Get back to your class, Harry, and don't use spells on them."

"It was a surprise exam," Harry lied now easily, pushing her hands away. "If they managed to snap out of the spell before I return, hooray! Bonus points!"

"Harry," she said seriously, but still wearing a smile. "Go. I will punish George for you."

"Hang on," Harry spoke up. "We're not through. I've yet to scold you on your trollopy behavior. If I've learned you've shared biscuits with the criminal, I'm getting thee to a nunnery."

"Harry," Hermione groaned.

"Hermione," he responded, this time losing all teasing. "Hermione. I won't stand here and yell, because you're a grown woman and may speak with whomever you please."

"You wanted to," she told him knowingly.

"Yes I wanted to, but I got distracted, and it will be too exhausting to work up that initial anger. I'm calm now, and it's all your fault. And George's. And George's stick figure's sexcapades on this week's lesson plan." Harry shrugged, and clasped her hand. "Just remember, please, what we're doing after tomorrow?"

The reminder dampened her earlier bright mood, and she nodded comfortingly. It wasn't so easy now, to smile and laugh. It wasn't so easy to joke. For a few minutes there, the cloud that had been haunting her since Harry's return had dissolved. Now, it seemed to be a veritable rainstorm, pounding her with frightening intensity. Ron will return. Ron will return.

"More importantly," Harry told her confidentially, kissing her cheek good bye, "don't waste so much time with that wanker that you forget to make supper."

"Pick up something on the way home," she told him. "I'm a bit tired."

"Tired from what?" he demanded, stepping away to observe her. "You're here all day! I'm the one at Hogwarts!"

"Oh what?" she challenged. "Are you saying keeping house and taking care of Lawrence isn't work?"

"I didn't say that," he retorted in exasperation, and then caught himself. "I'm going to go now, before I start complaining about my mother-in-law. See you later. Don't let Malfoy corrupt him."

Hermione laughed as Harry vanished.

There was no need for worry on Harry's part. Lawrence had burped while she was away, and with that gastronomical phenomenon, some fluid had made an appearance as well. As soon as she had opened the door, Draco had all but thrown Lawrence into her arms, muttering swear words and holding the damp shirt away from his skin. He did not leave his room for the rest of the day. Nobody truly cared for the reason, and Hermione was happy for the fact. Although she did regret laughing at the sight of his disgusted face, she did not want to embarrass him. He was already starving, after all.

That night, she set a tray of food outside his door, and hoped nobody would trip over it.

George, when he returned in the dead of night, was drunkenly confused to find his foot in a meat pie.

xoxox

The day passed by too quickly. George should have been here. Those fits came, those god damn fits seized her, and George should have been here.

_Breakfast, dishes, Lawrence..._

When had those shadows grown so much?

_Breakfast, dishes, Lawrence, vacuuming, television, Lawrence..._

The sun already overhead? How was that possible?

Oh god, oh god, it was nearly tea time, where had the day gone?

_Breakfast, dishes, Lawrence, vacuuming, television, Lawrence, lunch, Lawrence, reading, silence, Lawrence, tea, silence..._

No, no, no, it wasn't supposed to be so late yet. No, no, no, why was she already preparing supper?

There was Mrs. Weasley's letter. There was Hedwig, waiting a response.

What was she to say? What was she to say?

_Breakfast, dishes, Lawrence, vacuuming, television, Lawrence, lunch, Lawrence, reading, silence, Lawrence, tea, silence, letters, silence..._

"I can't go, Mrs. Weasley. I can't go and honour his memory because I'm going to bring him back to life."

It was moving too fast, it was moving too, too fast. And yet there was so much time to think such dangerous thoughts.

_Silence, silence, silence..._

Draco was here, here, and yet he was so far away. Why not bring Ron back, why not teach that smug bastard how it feels to be lonely and rejected?

Why not bring Ron back? Because what if that man made her feel lonely rejected?

Oh shit, oh shit, she couldn't do it. Tomorrow, not even twelve hours from now–

The supper was burning, but who gave a fucking shit about supper when darkness was bruising the blue sky and the sun was sinking and oh god, in just a few hours–

"Don't cry, Lawrence, please don't do that now. Mum needs some quiet time."

_Silence, Lawrence, silence..._

Another owl, another letter. "Don't you want to come, Hermione? Or are you too sad? It's best to mourn with other loved ones–"

She wasn't a fucking loved one. "Ron still loves you, all of you." It wasn't past tense, Not yet. Not in a few hours.

"Please stop crying, just stop crying!" Why couldn't she have a chance to cry? Why was it that all this happened around her, crashing upon her, shoving her into chaos, and she never allowed herself to cry?

The blackness stretched and unfurled beneath the doors and through the window panes, and the smell was horrible and acrid, and her eyes stung, from the smoke and her own tears and her own unconquerable fears...

_Lawrence...Hermione._

xoxox

"Harry," she sobbed as he found her, crying with Lawrence in her bedroom. He cautiously took the infant from her, vanished before her eyes before reappearing again, arms empty.

"Where is he?" she asked, throat clogged with tears, voice muffled by his chest as he drew her into a tight embrace. He stroked her hair, his clumsy hands painfully tugging at the knots, but how she needed this. Oh, how she needed comfort.

"At the Burrow," he answered, sitting against the headboard. His own voice was a hushed, half whispered thing, and he spoke close to hear ear. The tears wouldn't stop, this terrified, heart broken liquid would not stop, drenching him in sadness and fear. "Hermione," he said softly, despair soaking his words, "Hermione, why didn't you tell me?"

"I did," she argued weakly. He was so warm, so soft yet solid, and she envied him so much it burned. He didn't have these tearing daggers inside him, he didn't endure inward shredding every day. He wasn't torn, he didn't even know the fucking meaning of the word, of the feeling.

He gave a laugh, criticism laden in the jagged bruit. "You're here all day, cleaning, taking care of Larry, taking care of everybody, and yet you say nothing. You say nothing. If it does this to you, Hermione, why didn't you tell me? I wouldn't have...I would have never–"

"Been a complete dickhead?"

The panic was leaving now. With each exhalation, the cloying sensation eased out of her in little puffs, evaporating in the inky room. Hearing somebody else's voice, hearing something besides the accusing silence and the punishing infantile shrieks, it made her sane. It made her see reason. Well, not so much reason...it made her see hope.

"Yes, that."

They sat for a long time, huddled against each other and against the headboard. The tears gradually trickled to nothing, and she had rubbed her eyes against his shoulder, quietly thanking him. His stomach growled occasionally, but he did not complain.

It had always been there, hadn't it? Hermione absently removed Harry's painful touch from her hair. Yes, it had always been there. These pains, these fears had always been waiting in the shadows, hoping for a quiet moment, aching for an open window. There had been no distractions today. Not enough any way. Draco would not answer, and George had gone off to speak to Fred. There was nothing to do, no rooms to clean, nobody to save her from herself. Perhaps, it was best to let it out now, and before Ron saw her like this; frightened to hysterical tears.

"Did I do this?" he asked, almost coldly. But the frosty demeanor was not directed to herself, she knew that. Harry was all too ready to shoulder burdens. This break down, this siege of anguish, was no different.

"Did I push you too hard? Did I tease you too much? I've hinted, Hermione, I know I have, but that was only to convince you. I never meant to make you cry–"

"Harry–"

"Back in the old days," Harry continued, apparently not hearing her soft plea, "and yes, I do know that they're old days, and nothing more. Back in the old days, if you had asked me which best friend I liked better, I would have said that I liked you equally. But only if you asked me. For, in truth, Ron was my best mate. You knew how to get out of situations, yes, but he was my best mate.

"But now...it's different. It's true, now. I love you both equally. But I haven't been behaving that way, have I? My actions state it clearly. Ron is more valuable. I'm purposefully blind to your tears, Hermione. I pretend I don't see how much having Malfoy here hurts you. I tell myself it's all worth it, but it's not Hermione. Not if I make you feel like this."

At first, she had not understood his wandering words, seemingly cast out in to the abyss with no true purpose. But now, she spied his intention, and wavered between gratitude and sheer horror.

"Don't say it," she breathed.

The words were ripped out of him, despite her warning. There was pain in his eyes when he opened his mouth. "You don't have to do it."

All of that planning, all of those minute details, every second of every day for the past two years–gone.

"Harry, no," she gasped, scrambling from his arms and off the bed. "No, Harry, don't say that!"

He was not so aghast by the suggestion. He sat up, concern and stubbornness written in his face. "Look what it's done to you. Look what I've done. It's not worth it, to have you go mad or hate me or hate yourself. I've pushed this one thing so much–"

"Yes, you have," she agreed, absurdly feeling the urge to cry once more. "But you have to keep pushing me, Harry–"

"I'm breaking you," he cried loudly, shaking his head. "How much more can you take? I'm not willing to find out, Hermione, I'm not! I love you too much to sacrifice you for Ron. And if it means having you shack up with Malfoy, all right, all right, just–just... I don't want to come home, expecting a happy mother and her happy son and find this."

"One more day," she laughed sadly. "Just one more day. They're mourning, tomorrow, did you know that? They'll be crying, Harry, oh god, they'll be bawling, just like I was now. And we could fix that–"

"You're hurting!"

"I always will," she answered, trying to smile, trying to laugh, but grasped blindly for nothing in the darkness. "I always will," Hermione repeated, broken inside. "People do things that seem right, that feel right, but are ultimately wrong. You have. I have. We always hurt, a little bit, all the time. It's just a matter of having enough good feelings to smother that. Bringing Ron back will help me smother that."

Harry shrugged helplessly, gesturing to her. "But you're crying," he whispered, as if it were the most horrendous event in the world.

"Because I'm scared," Hermione sighed, smiling. It was meant to comfort him, but did nothing as blackness stole the warmth.

"Yes, there, you see? I can't do this if I'm making you–"

"Harry," she interrupted, meaning to plant a firm hand on his mouth. Naturally, it was difficult to see, and she managed to slap him accidentally before shushing him. Hermione laughed through her tears as she spoke. "Yes, I'm scared. But I'm going to have to overcome that to do what's right. That's what we do Harry. That's simply what we've always done."

Harry smiled, and she heard a muttered "lumos." The light was strange yet welcome, allowing her to see Harry's wet eyes and a red mark on his cheek.

"I wasn't crying," he warned her, scrambling off the bed. "You burned my bloody supper. The smoke's stained the walls and hurt my eyes. I want a divorce."

xoxox

"Right, so, the last time I remember this place, there were a lot of children running around–"

"The last time you've been here, you and your lot were declaring war," Harry cut him off shortly.

"What?" Draco asked skeptically. "Surely, we didn't get all of them?"

"Harry's arranged a special treat for the entire student body," Hermione explained, "and the staff as well."

The three passed by one window, and Hermione quickly looked outside. The weather was not exactly dreary, for the dense fog was bright, and not so frightening. It was a kind of cottony thickness that one wanted to become lost in, the type of friendly mist that promised safety. Security. Ron.

It had been so sunny, Hermione remembered now, the day he went away. Was it all right, if the weather was different? Would he return, if the heavens refused to mimic that fateful morning?

Her head turned away from the obscure view, and her eyes fell to the ground. They walked in sync, she and Harry. Draco was slightly off, a swagger swinging his feet into an off beat pattern.

Once out of Number Twelve, Draco seemed to grow with the added freedom. Of course, she didn't believe it was fresh air and sunshine that helped him stand a little straighter, smirk a little wider. Perhaps it was the knowledge that, after today's irritating ceremony, he was to be free. Still wanted, granted, but no longer under Harry Potter's thumb and roof. No longer at the mercy of Hermione Granger, her caterwauling baby, and her pots and pots of unwanted food.

Thankfully, the invisibility cloak had managed to conceal that galling grin all the way to the school. They had awoken hours before the sun had, to drop off Lawrence at the Burrow. George was nowhere to be found, presumably still out carousing or reminiscing or arguing with Fred. There had been criticism in Ginny's bleary eyes when the sleepy girl had spied them, but she said nothing. If Harry and Hermione wished to remember Ron in their own way, then the Weasleys were not going to part the remainders of the Golden Trio.

Many students were not in attendance any way, with or without Harry's interference. Many older brothers and sisters died this morning, two years prior. It was simply understood that, if one did not feel like learning lectures or getting out of bed, the professors would not mind in the least.

"What treat?" Draco asked, irksomely cheerful. As soon as the cloak had slipped off and as soon as they had crossed the threshold, Draco was his old self. His smarmy, annoying, evil self. His swaggering, smirking, nose-in-the-air self.

"They're beating and then burning effigies of colourless Death Eaters," Harry answered shortly. He was in an unpleasant mood, and Hermione could not decide which was the cause. The fact that he had to hold Draco's arm during the entire journey here, or the fact that he had awoken before the sun, yet again.

Or might it do with this _very _delicate, potentially disastrous spell they were ready to perform?

The truth was, Harry had suggested and financed a short excursion to Berlin, where a violent, messy conflict had occurred. It was not quite a battle, not officially. But, then again, there were many instances in which lives were lost, in which the bad conquered the good, that were not categorized as "official." Berlin was one of the many places where good wizards had become victims, martyrs, in their efforts to protect muggle bystanders. The historians were not even sure whether to name the tragedy, to count the red day as something important.

Today there was to be the presentation of a memorial for the twenty-three German wizards and witches slaughtered. For those who did not wish to remain in the UK for the war anniversary or for those who simply wished to witness history, Professor Potter's strong suggestion proved beneficial. Whether they used the day to mourned loved ones, mourn strangers, or simply lay in bed, Harry did not care.

It had been the one favour he had asked of Remus when he had been coerced into education. Perhaps Lupin thought Harry's intention to be emotional–a way to have closure, being alone in the school on Ron's death anniversary. He was thankful and ashamed that Remus thought so highly of him.

"We were ready to offer the real thing, of course," Harry continued as they approached the massive doors that led to the dining hall. "But then we decided it unfair not to give them something solid to beat."

"Oh fuck off Potter," Draco snapped, the wall of his good mood finally crumbling. "I'm here, doing you a favour–"

"Wrong," Harry interrupted, so loudly that his words bounced sadly off the abandoned walls. "I'm the one

doing you a favour. You could be rotting in jail if it wasn't for my generosity–"

"Surprise, surprise, Harry Potter is doing a good deed for the less fortunate–"

"Jesus Christ, Malfoy's finally admitted to being less than fortunate!"

Hermione knew that, at one point, she was supposed to speak up and tell them to behave. But, honestly, it was a role she was ready to shed. Also, it was interesting and somewhat amusing to hear their vicious sparring in this eerie stillness.

"You were never this feisty in our school days, Potter. What happened? Shagged your first pouf and gained some confidence?"

"Not all of us think through our cocks, you inbred pounce–"

"Will the two of you just punch each other and get it over with?" Hermione demanded. It was not quite the peacemaker words with which she had grown accustomed to delivering, but it silenced them just as effectively. They stared in confusion as she crossed her arm and observed them expectantly. "Well? Obviously, you two are ready to inflict some bodily harm on one another. Seeing as Draco's wand is absent–"

"As always," Harry snidely chimed in. Draco responded with the same warmth, showing Harry his third finger.

"Then may I suggest pistols at dawn?" Hermione continued tartly. "Much quicker to die by bullet than by blades. Either way, can we please shed some blood and get on with the morning?"

"Listen to Boadicea," Draco laughed, no malice in his tone.

"Who knew Hermione was so violent?" Harry said with delighted surprise.

Then, much to their dismay, the boys found themselves in a foreign land called Agreement, and quickly assumed their belligerent scowls once more.

Hermione ignored them, and nervously tucked her unruly hair behind her ears. With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and set her chin at a defiant angle. This was it. She was ready.

She took one step and...

"Where are you going?" Harry asked, confused.

"Why...to where Ron died, of course–"

"Bah," Harry actually scoffed. Hermione blinked, and, in her surprise, allowed Harry to pull her away from the door.

Bah? _Bah?_ Who said "Bah" these days? What man actually emitted a "Bah" outside a macabre Christmas story? If not for Harry's absurdity and their collective, earnest goal, she would have emitted a giggle.

Despite the blinding blankness outside, within the walls they were enveloped by amber warmth and cool blackness. Without logic, nothing outside penetrated the somber atmosphere inside. Not a speck of light dared to intrude upon their mission, and not a rogue wind whispered in their solemn intentions.

"We're going to separate," Harry finally said, after an eternity of staring at his pocket watch. Where and from whom Harry had acquired a pocket watch, Hermione did not know. He seemed to be full of surprises lately.

"If we separate, how the hell am I supposed to know what to do?" Draco wanted to know with a cynical frown.

"Yes, I know it's difficult to outgrow your minion frame of mind, but try to keep up sport," Harry told him calmly. "You will do nothing. I will say the spell, and I will perform the ceremony. All that's required of you is participation and cooperation."

"What does that mean?"

"Oh I'm sorry. The official definition of 'participation' is–"

"He means," Hermione explained without emotion, "don't run away."

"Shut it, Granger," Draco drawled. "I may not have been a Gryffindor, but I'm no coward."

Harry shuffled and glanced around the hallway with some contagious paranoia. Hermione, too, warily took in their surroundings, from the high ceilings to the ornate and austere walls. Abruptly, she was happy for the change, grateful for these new materials. No judgmental past, no honourable tradition laid behind these bricks and these stones. Everything was new, different, awaiting potential. So if three former students wanted to perform an illegal and possibly immoral magical ceremony defiantly in broad and unsuspecting daylight, then so be it. This was a place of change.

Draco, somehow, was immune to their underlying fear, and only flickered his gaze to Hermione impassively.

"It will hurt, won't it?" Hermione asked softly.

"Perhaps," Harry answered, equally hushed. He was garbed in his professor apparel, and had something hidden at the side of his waist. Faintly, Hermione could just make out the outlines...

Hermione gave up her scrutiny, and distractedly noticed her own attire. She wore a hideous, vermilion knitted creation of Mrs. Weasley's, something very similar to a dress. The hemline was certainly scandalously short, so, in fear of inciting teasing from Harry, Draco, or both, she had decided to wear jeans as well. Draco was also uncharacteristically casual, once more wearing a pair of Harry's jeans and a blue jumper. The jeans and sleeves were slightly short, which was understandable considering the difference of height between the rivals. However, the only other male who knew of Malfoy's presence in England was George, who, while conveniently the same height as the wanted wizard, was not of the convenient name. Draco had said rather dramatically–when Hermione had suggested some borrowing–that he would rather die than accept hand-me-down's from a Weasley.

"Emotionally, or physically?" Draco wanted to know.

"You wouldn't have to worry about the former, now, would you?" Harry spoke like a robot, mechanically offering insults even when his heart was not in it.

Suddenly, Hermione could no longer stand it. What the hell were they doing? They had risked Draco's safety, Harry's employment, and her sanity to get here. And now what? The boys were arguing, Harry was stalling, and she was standing meekly in silence!

"Get on with it," she commanded, timbre sharpening. "Tell us what to do or what's going to happen and just get on with it."

Harry sighed, heavily and with no small amount of grief. At another time, she might have pitied him. She might have comforted him, as he had last night. But, in all seriousness, now was not the time for Harry Potter to be Harry Potter. Hermione met his gaze challengingly and nodded once.

"Remember the last time you touched Ron–"

"Guess I can't participate," Draco chirped lightly.

"You touched Ron's hands," Harry plowed on. He reached inside his robes, and, much to Hermione's disappointment, only placed a protective hand over the mysterious objects. "Just recall what happened before that contact, where you had been when it occurred. Try to remember who you are, what's happening now–don't get caught up in the past."

Harry's emerald eyes shone meaningfully to Hermione's, and for a moment, it was difficult to discern just who was lecturing whom.

"And you grasp his hand," Harry continued, tearing his stare away to grimace at Malfoy, "pull. Pull him out. And bring him home."

_Grasp his hand...and bring him home_.

Hermione laughed.

It was startling, beyond startling really, to hear the carefree, giddy sound chiming from Hermione's lips. Draco stepped away, and gave Potter a questioning look.

Harry was in no better understanding of her bout of madness, and was forced to wait until the last of her chuckles faded away.

"It's not that simple," she breathed, wiping away the tears. "No way in hell is it that simple."

"I thought she didn't know the ceremony?" Malfoy demanded, sounding very put off.

"She doesn't."

"I don't, but I know it can't be that simple. Good god, Harry. You've spent a year planning this, and now you tell me hold Ron's hand and that's it? That will make it all better? How reliable is this spell, Harry–"

"Very much so," Harry answered with quiet fury. "Do you honestly think I'd risk Ron's soul with some mediocre magic? Do you think I'd risk your life, and my own, with some amateur shit?"

"Risk your life?" Draco repeated. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It doesn't matter," Hermione replied, sobering now. Oh god, how unbelievable. It was no more credible than when he had first told them. Pull. Bring him home. But, as she repeated the phrase in her mind, Hermione found that she warmed to the idea. Yes, that was the way Ron should return home; with a loved one.

"If it's meant to be," Harry continued, beginning to pace. When Draco stubbornly refused to move out of his way, Harry gave a violent shove and maintained his steps calmly. "Then Ron will choose one of us to be a conduit, of sorts. If it's not, then we grasp at nothing. We find ourselves alone, once more. And then we never try again."

It was a fact. An unchangeable horrible fact. Yet, for some reason both touching and worrying, Harry had sent a questioning look Hermione's way. As if waiting for consent. Good lord, he was the planner, he was the mastermind! Why the hell did so much weigh on her shoulders?

_Oh shut up_, she told herself. _Whatever's on your shoulders now is nothing compared to what Harry's carried over the years._

Nearly imperceptibly, she nodded. Harry tonelessly told them what was necessary. His magic would find them. He reminded them not to run, and not to be alarmed. He had everything under control.

When somebody said such words, Hermione reflected as her feet shuffled heavily forward, catastrophes usually occurred. Wars. Deaths. Ships and Icebergs.

"Remember, the last time you've touched his hand."

"Why the hands?" Draco asked, apparently for the sake of being annoying. Malfoy was far from them, nearly around the corner and towards the dungeons. Hermione frowned slightly. When and how did Draco come to touch Ron's hand? Surely, Ron would have told her...

"Because I have a hand fetish," Harry answered sarcastically. "I don't know why the hands. I didn't make up the god damn spell."

Draco decided not to wait for further friendly words and sauntered away, whistling a merry tune. Hermione watched him go, wondering if it was the last to see of him, if this spell proved too dangerous, and if he decided to flee the second Ron returned. Why was it that the last she saw of her true loves happened to be their retreating backs?

"Well?" Harry asked. "Where are you going?"

Words caught in her throat, Hermione could only nod towards the doors.

_In just a few minutes..._

Harry motioned with his head. "That's my place as well. I won't be seeing you though...it will be different times."

_An hour at most..._

Hermione nodded nervously, a roaring, ear-popping silence filling her ears. Now each fearful breath she took was magnified. Each hair on the back of her neck was raised as Harry flanked her.

_And Ron will be here._

Nothing had been lit in the absence of the children. Even the air remained in fixed silence as they entered, making Hermione want to tip toe and apologise for her very presence. Grey lights and black slivers draped the walls and tables, reminding Hermione, calling to Hermione–

She gasped. She had been here before.

Perhaps Harry recalled as well. Perhaps, when Ron contacted him, Harry too had caught glimpses of their war painted school.

She heard him faintly as he spoke to himself, his low musical murmur weaving just below the stifled air. As if seeking refuge from the dead atmosphere, the words were quiet, barely detectable, making Hermione wish that Harry would speak like that more often. She wanted to tell him that it was all right. Despite this horrid home, she wanted to say, Ron was all right and Ron would come back.

Harry's voice rose slightly, and Hermione learned he was not vocalizing his surprise. He was not observing their surroundings out loud, and nor was he muttering words of comfort.

Harry was doing magic.

At her.

xoxox

It didn't make sense. She should have dodged it. It should have missed. Harry should not have done it.

But the Should Have's did nothing to ease the bright, explosive pain in her chest. It was not a burning knife, though the searing sting and the smell of burnt flesh might have fooled her stunned mind. It was not a plant, a malicious vine, though the tendril of blackness moved around her and coiled like a reptilian, sentient branch.

It was magic. The Dark Arts.

Hermione opened her mouth to scream, accuse him, hurl words of panic to the skies...before the living obscurity enveloped her, swallowing her cries as Harry watched impassively.

One step.

Her hand was itchy.

Another step.

But it was a pleasant itch. A funny tickle.

And another.

It was her jumper. The itchy, funny tickle. She had her jumper by her side, the same jumper she had lost in the chaos of that morning.

Somebody brushed against her shoulder, and apologised in between pants.

In a voice so sweet and young Hermione barely recognised it, she spoke. "What's the hurry?"

Hermione Granger opened her eyes and found herself addressing a young first year student.

A young first year student who had died this day, two years ago.

The Asian boy rolled his eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh. "It's breakfast!"

That was enough for any growing young lad to abuse etiquette and dash about in a reckless manner as if famine was a real threat to their small school. As head girl, she ought to have scolded him and his absurd priorities.

But Hermione merely smiled, and shook her head. The boy took that to be an act of forgiveness, and quickly turned to disappear through the doors.

The morning was bright and chilly, and Hermione paused to look out a window. The sky was an impossible blue, and the sun radiated a blinding gold...a morning her sleepy Ron might have called nauseating.

Hermione smiled, and strode beatifically into the hall, meeting a wall of happy chatter and the thick, inviting aromas of freshly cooked food. In one hand, she held her books. In the other, tucked underneath her robe, she carried a jumper.

_Try to remember who you are, what's happening now–don't get caught up in the past_.

Hermione sank onto the bench, absently thanking Lavender for saving her seat. Her glassy eyes scanned the room.

This wasn't real. These children were dead. It was all in her mind.

"No," she protested brokenly, the single word nothing more than a trampled note in the cheerful chaos.

But she could smell the food! She could feel the table! She could hear the laughter!

_Don't get caught up in the past._

But it was so easy. Oh god, this felt right. This felt like home. It was impossible to be here, relive this, and not slip into old habits. Old laughs. Old lives.

With shaking hands, she mechanically reached for her plate. Yes, she remembered now. This was what she ate. That was where Lavender sat.

Hermione's eyes swiftly focused on the far wall.

And that was where dozens of Death Eaters broke through and killed my friends.

_Say something_, her heart whispered urgently. _Warn them, take them to safety!_

_Try to remember who you are, what's happening now..._

Hermione shook her head, quickly wiping away these silly tears. It was impossible to tell these innocents what was going to happen, for even she did not remember this tragic morning with crystal clarity. That little boy in the corridor, for instance. She hadn't remembered that. Lavender saving her seat; her mind had never recalled such a detail. This breakfast...it was all a play, and the script came to her as the characters arrived.

Hermione bit her lip. She knew that, whatever was to come, she would not like it. Something felt wrong, something felt horribly wrong, inside her heart...

"Morning," Ron said cheerfully, plopping down next to her. The other students moved away, though not in fear of another row. By this time, the Gryffindors were so accustomed of being ignored by one when the other was present that most had given up attempting to converse with the couple.

"Morning," Hermione replied, moving her books slightly to her right so he could lay his own down. She smiled, though it was not the radiant smile one was accustomed to seeing on her face when Ron Weasley was about. It was hesitant, unsure, as if they were not romantic standard of Hogwarts.

Ron's own expression was strained, as well, eyes focusing on the food, the books, and the bench without ever meeting his fiancee's gaze. He grit his teeth, obviously bracing himself for the inevitable.

He nodded towards her open book, with an inquisitive expression.

"Latin," she said simply.

He nodded, not even pretending to be interested. He feigned interest in a few of the surrounding students, and a first year's attempt to copy Seamus' rum changing spell. Then he returned his focus once more to Hermione, apparently collecting himself enough to carry a conversation.

He summoned a deep breath, and an amusing amount of concentration, only to ask: "What're you studying?"

Hermione, seeing that he was trying his best to quell the awkwardness, bit back her laughter. Instead, she said gently, "Latin, I told you already."

"What's this?" He settled one large hand on the book, attempting to pull it closer to his view, when she refused to let it slide towards his vicinity. "Ouch, don't snatch, you horrible thing, you'll leave paper cuts."

Even with her swift refusal, Ron had caught a glimpse of the long, incomprehensible literature written on the pages. "My, my, aren't we a clever little monkey?" He said with an easy smile, nearly making Hermione weak with relief.

Rallying, she replied cheekily, "Says the boy with ears that could take flight."

"I'll ignore that, because it was very immature and I haven't a very good comeback. What does this say?" Ron asked, pointing at a random phrase in her open book.

"Ama me fideliter, Fidem meam noto, Decorde totaliter, Et ex mente tota, Sum presentialiter, Absens in remota."

"I see." A pause. "Oh, yes, I see."

"You don't understand, do you?"

"Not in the slightest. But I suppose you're going to tell me. I guess you're good for something."

"Yes. My sole purpose in life is to translate the simplest of Latin phrases for the big eared boy who has some egg on his chin."

"I do not have big ears!" A pause. "Do I?"

She smiled a small smile, shaking her head. When he nodded once more to the text, she translated softly. "Love me faithfully, See how I am faithful, With all my Heart, and all my Soul, I am with you, even though I am far away."

Ron blinked several times, the playfulness of his features stilling into a frightened mask.

"That's the translation," she added, wounded deeply by the fear in his eyes. "That's what you asked for, isn't it?"

Hermione watched him sadly. Ron was no angel–though, by being part of their trio and a part of the Gryffindor House, many liked to accuse him of sanctimonious good deeds. Ron was not a warrior–though, by past flares of tempers, past mistakes of a youth, many liked to call him belligerent.

Ron was just a boy, who fidgeted and erred and stumbled through life like any other boy. Here, sitting in the pale sunlight, Hermione simply wished that he would stay her boy.

"About last night," she began suddenly with a pained, hitched voice.

He held up a large hand, the corners of lips quirking up with embarrassment. "Don't," he interrupted, and then realised he sounded far too angry for decent conversation. "Don't," he attempted once more, "don't make excuses for me again." He sighed with what could have been amusement, if not for the seriousness of the situation. "You're always making excuses for me Hermione. And there was no excuse for the things I said last night."

"And you think I had any right to say what I said?" Hermione demanded in a horrified whisper. She pushed her plate away to rest her head in her hands. "My god, Ron, when I think of what I said about...well, about–"

Not wanting to hear her relive the hurtful conversation, Ron nodded quickly. "Yes, yes, we both said some rather nasty insults, very true. At least..."

He did look up at her now, his expression half trepidation and half hope. "At least we learned something valuable from it, haven't we?"

But she was not watching his expression. She was not noticing the fine tremors in his hands. She was not observing the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead as he awaited her answer.

All she heard were the words. Something valuable.

Something valuable.

"Yes," she agreed, overly loud, overly enthusiastic, trying with all her being to conceal the agony of this bubbly, friendly acting. "Yes, it's a good thing, to have prevented such a mistake."

They both winced at such a vile label for their relationship. And neither noticed the other's response.

"People," she began again, breath growing short from the abundance of lies in her tone, "People who say such horrible things to each other...People who aim and design to say such gutting insults...People who make each other cry and hate themselves..."

"People like us," Ron finished, not bothering to disguise the deadness in his voice, "People like us should not be married."

It was horrible, saying those words. It was excruciating, to hear them said.

But, Ron reflected, it was what she wanted.

Still, Hermione thought sadly, it was what he needed.

She licked her lips, and they refused to stop trembling. "We make wonderful friends, you and I," she said quietly, knowing to be the truth.

"Yes."

"Simply because we no longer kiss does not mean we no longer love each other."

"Of course," he agreed hollowly.

"And I do love you Ron. No matter what. I do."

He stilled, and then he glimpsed briefly at her while she reached within her robes.

"Here," she said unsteadily, handing him a half blue, half maroon jumper. "Tell your mother I'm sorry. Oh Ron. I'm so, so sorry."

Their hands clasped briefly as he reluctantly reached for it. Using all her weight, Hermione wrapped her fingers around Ron's wrist and leaned back...

When Hermione looked up to see his reaction, she found herself once more in the dimly lit hall, hand offered to a boy who had refused to come.

xoxox

Harry hated to see that sheer terror in his best friend's eyes. But how was he to say, "Brace yourself. This is going to hurt so much you'll wish you could die" to her? It was best not to let her know the upcoming agony. That way, she did not have the chance to fear it.

He waited until the inky fingers had reached and wrapped around Draco as well before turning the sorcery upon himself. This was difficult. Standing vulnerably, allowing this demonic force to swallow him whole.

Blood and sweat dripped down Harry's chin as the nothingness crept and swirled around his body. First, a sharp, needle-like point embedded itself in his heart. Harry, dizzily detached from the happenings, stared down at the growing wound in wide eyed silence. Jesus, it hurt. It fucking hurt a lot. He had cut into his bottom lip in his effort to keep from screaming out, and the sweat did nothing to cool the excruciating heat. Damn it, it shouldn't last this long! Hermione had been swept away in a moment, why the fuck did this torture him–

Ron huddled, sitting closer to Harry than he would have deemed normal. It was strange, he reflected with inappropriate distraction. He would willingly trust Harry with his life, but did not like the thought of sitting close enough to feel any body heat.

Harry stared. He had thought of Ron every day since he "died," reminded himself of Ron's sacrifice practically every hour...

And yet he had forgotten him. He had forgotten what Ron looked like.

The boy stared now, amazed and frightened at the sight of his living, breathing, and hiding friend. Somewhere inside him, he knew that this was not Ron. This was a memory. That spilled blood, those ear-splitting screams, the jagged debris...all recreated for the spell. This was not real.

But Harry's brief smile was genuine.

"What is it then?" Ron asked, not bothering to lower his voice. With the anguished moans and roared hexes around them, any indication of their hiding place would have been lost in the cacophony.

"What?" Harry asked grimly.

"What's the plan?"

Harry paused in his desperate ruminations to stare at Ron. "You must be joking."

But Ron gave no indication of any humour. "No," he answered, slightly confused. "Why should I be?"

Harry's green eyes widened even more. His best mate was not joking in any way. Ron had more faith in him than he had ever hoped to realise. It was simply too–too bizarre, really. Such blind loyalty belonged in a younger student, somebody who did not know his flaws, somebody who did not witness his mistakes.

Ron, although not precisely aware of Harry's self-doubting thoughts, seemed to sense some hesitation. "Look," he began, voice oddly gruff, "I know how this'll end. And you needn't worry. I'll be there."

"Be where, Ron?" Harry asked and wondered why a lump was growing in his throat.

Ron's blue eyes met Harry's own with unprecedented intensity and sadness. Harry knew that Ron had–he must have, though Harry could not recall when–met his gaze directly before. But never before had he felt the impact as he had now, in this aching, shuddering grey world. Never before had anything been so clear, so forceful.

"Where you'll need me," Ron answered, evidently choosing his words carefully. The youngest Weasley boy gave a wry smile. It wouldn't do, they both knew instantly, to say "To the end," for that was simply too pessimistic and too presumptuous and too truthful to be said aloud.

"I know my role, Harry," he said, nodding now a little bit, speaking to both himself and his best friend. "I know who I am. The sidekick. This is how it's expected to be."

"I'm sorry," Harry began, amazed to hear Ron speak so plainly and at such a time. "What?"

"Sidekick," Ron repeated, as if speaking to a slow child. "I dunno why, really. I'm taller than you. I'm definitely handsomer. Perhaps it's because you've got magnificently mysterious scars and a lack of happy childhood moments. Perhaps it's because I've only three letters to my name, and, as if that wasn't pitiful enough, it doesn't began with an 'H.' I don't understand the reasoning behind my assigned role, but there you have it. You're the hero, Hermione's a co-hero, and I'm a sidekick."

Harry started to speak, and there was an odd moment during which his mouth was open, and no words poured out. But how Ron wished there had been an awkward silence, instead of the terrible sounds he heard during those seconds. How he wished they could have both laughed at Harry's lack of eloquence, instead of shuddered as one student died an excruciating and burning death.

"That's shit, Ron," Harry finally spat out, not caring that, should he die in the next few minutes, his last few words were unmentionable in church. "That's just not true."

"Call me what you will," Ron said, losing the smile but never losing the conviction in his expression. "But we both know who has to go on."

Harry shook his head. There just no time, god damn it, there was simply no time. How long ago had he sat down for a bite of breakfast? Minutes? Hours? Days? He couldn't remember, and he was livid that he couldn't. Why, fuck it all, why did they do this? Why was a seventeen year old boy being forced to listen to his seventeen year old best friend say that, yes, I'm willing to die for you? Why?

"And let that queen get you again?" Harry said in a bittersweet tone. "Not bloody likely."

"Now, now," Ron said, shoulders slumping with relief to see some of his humour again, "it's not nice to call Death Eaters queens."

Oh god they couldn't laugh, Harry noticed numbly. They couldn't laugh any more. At best, they nodded, giving some indication that yes, that was a good one, but oh god, how impossible laughter seemed at the moment. Odd, Harry thought, for, at this moment or the next, it felt as if he would never laugh again.

"There is no plan," Ron finally said, peeking through the cracks of their debris-made shelter. "Is there Harry?"

"Nope," he finally admitted. There was time later, he guessed, to learn all that military stuff. Harry thought that the Harry of yesteryear would have berated himself for not being as brilliant as Hermione, for not being able to produce an amazing plan within a few seconds. But the Harry of today was strangely proud of his lack of martial skills. It meant he was normal, a little bit.

"Ah well," Ron said with enviable nonchalance. "Sidekick still in service."

Harry shook his head. Not for disapproval of the label, for when Ron believed in something that strongly it was damn near impossible to shake him from the idea. He shook his head slightly for no other reason than his own stupidity. For who else but an utterly thoughtless man would be thinking about technicalities at a moment like this?

"The thing is, Ron," Harry said slowly, both sensing and hearing one Death Eater draw closer, "that people never realise the obvious. Yes, you'll stand by my side, so, in a sense, that does make you my side kick. But while you're doing that, I'll be standing by your side as well. We're equal Ron. We've always been equal. They may call you my side kick, but I'll call myself yours."

Ron had no time to absorb the sentimentality of this promise, though, by the tightening of his jaw, Harry knew it had been acknowledged and remembered. "If that's the case," Ron said quickly, tensing as he, too, sensed approaching danger, "Take care of this Death Eater Queen for me, will you side kick?"

Before their shelter was blown away, Harry, before he had time to process the reasoning behind it, shook Ron's hand.

Harry pulled with all his might.

Only to find himself alone in the darkened Great Hall, grasping at nothing.

xoxox

Draco Malfoy decided, just as the blackness swam in his gaze, that he was going to kill Harry Potter.

Fucking prat. Probably specially designed the most painful thing in the universe, just for his participation. Probably thought, Well, this spell makes you feel like a happy, fluffy, Gryffindor bunny, so I'll have to modify it for Malfoy.

And when Draco closed his eyes in the dark dungeon's corridor only to open his eyes in the dark dungeon's corridor, he kicked at the wall, cursing both the pain and Potter.

It didn't even work! God, just how overrated was that mudblood? Thought he was a brooding little genius, didn't he? Flying around, making shady deals, bribing and blackmailing as if there was no tomorrow!

Draco snorted, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Potter. What an amateur.

Then Draco noticed his apparel, with the Slytherin coloured tie wrapped around his neck like a nostalgic leash. Quickly, Malfoy absorbed his surroundings.

How did it work? Did the new blocks disappear, or simply age? Had the world outside been affected by the time change as well, or simply this isolated location? Why on earth was Harry Potter blessed with such power, when he wasted it on meaningless tasks like resurrecting useless tossers?

Draco took a step forward, ready to make his way to the Slytherin common room and relive his glory days when he noticed a painful twinge in his left ankle. Looking down, he tested his left leg again, only to find that, quite insolently, that pain not only twinged once more, but also grew.

"Bloody Quidditch!" he growled vehemently, and found that he could not walk without a noticeable and mortifying limp. After four or five steps, the quiet agony would not be endured without a bit of rest.

Draco remembered this. Oh yes, how very well he remembered that humiliating defeat at the hands of those humdrum Hufflepuffs. He hadn't minded so much the crash into the Ravenclaw stands, and the consequent broken wood-embedded-in-leg incident. Such injuries usually resulted in a gaggle of fawning, loose girls any way. It was the fact that his blood had been shed for a defeat that galled him. If they had won, then Draco would have cheerfully sported a bloody forest stabbed into his back. Victory was all that mattered.

Judging by the aged colour of the bandage, Malfoy reckoned the injury to be a week old. Right. So it was spring, of their sixth year. His pale brows drew together. Something else happened around this time, didn't it? Besides the loathsome touch of one impoverished weasel?

Abruptly, he heard a door swing open with heavy impatience. Odd. Snape could even make inanimate objects unhappy.

"Still here?" Snape called disinterestedly, swiftly approaching and then passing his limping student. "As much as you abhor them, your crutches are still in my classroom."

He never liked him, Draco suddenly realised. Snape was sometimes pleased by Draco's torment of the Golden Trio. Snape was occasionally amused by Draco's obvious aim to ingratiate. But Severus Snape, Draco observed as the potions professor swept past him without one jot of concern, did not like Draco Malfoy.

Huh. How about that. Probably acted the way he did because he feared Draco's father. And who wouldn't? Draco smugly crossed his arms, imagining the departing Snape to be a fleeing mouse. Back before he lost his touch, Lucius Malfoy had been admirably fearsome.

Draco weighed his options. Go back into the empty classroom to retrieve the crutches...and look like a pathetic moron. Continue in this slow, exhausting way, and look like a pathetic moron.

Well. Wonderful. With a resigned sigh, Draco swallowed his pride–only because nobody was present–and hobbled quickly to retrieve his crutches. Now his hold on his materials was more precarious than ever, but at least this quickened his journey to rest and flattery.

Merlin, how did Potter do it? He wondered to himself as he managed to two metres in ten minutes. Him and his lot were constantly getting trounced by something or other, and still made it to class on time. Well, that supposedly female one, any way.

Ironically, the next footsteps that loudly clunked down the steps happened to belong to that red haired imbecile. Even before Draco spied the first foot land upon the dank, dungeon floor, his lips were curling with disgust. Shit. Weasley.

The vicious amount of loathing reserved for this lowborn wizard never failed to surprise him. It gave a whole new meaning to that silly phrase, "Out of sight, out of mind."

For, in truth, when not nudging justice in the right direction and making sure that threesome was as miserable as fate intended them to be, Draco Malfoy rarely spent more than a second thinking about Ronald Weasley. While it pleased him to know that, even when he didn't try, that tarnished trio was whinging and moaning about what horrid things Draco had done to them for this week, Draco himself never really pondered the three when they were never in the room. It was as if he forgot their very existence altogether; on an individual level at least.

For instance, Granger was simply Granger. Not even a half-blood, and not even very beautiful. She seemed to fill out her robes all right, but that was hardly enough to compensate for her unforgiving status. But when Granger was with Potter, then one had to be alert. Those two were always coming up with something beneficial and heroic and sickeningly good.

Potter...well, Potter was a prat. From the very first time he heard the words, "The Boy Who Lived," Draco had never thought the title nor the owner of the title very impressive. So what? His childish mind had snorted while his parents discussed this mysterious child. I'm a boy and I live as well. Big fucking deal.

And Weasley...yes, that one rarely deserved any thought, if at all. He was not terribly magical, and nor did he possess bewildering intelligence. The only positive quality to be said about him was that he was pureblooded, and even that pro did little to improve his station in life.

Both feet–freakishly large, Draco noted, and most likely wearing hole-filled socks–stepped to the floor, but then turned.

"Sod off, Harry," Ron laughed.

"Gah, my virgin ears," Draco heard the boy wonder respond from above.

"I've never seen sluttier ears in my entire life," Ron rejoined, and waved good bye absently.

"Please, you've got Draco Malfoy ears if I've ever saw them. Slut of Sly–oh, hi Professor McGonagall!"

Ron quickly moved out of the sight of that stern transfiguration professor, and quickly made his way towards Draco's direction. Without hesitation, Draco pushed the crutches against the wall and rested his weight on both feet equally. He quelled a wince as Weasley's steps slowed.

Not even a snide "Malfoy," greeting. Not even a meaningful glare. The wizard merely spied Malfoy, frowned slightly, and continued.

Potter's laughter had been galling. But Weasley's laughter–even Weasley's small smile, right now–had been utterly abrasive to Draco's mind. What right did this rubbish have to smile like that? Didn't he know that he was just a pathetic afterthought? The hero, the genius, and then that dumb fellow who was needed for comic relief. That was all Ron Weasley was.

Weasley was nearly past him when, bracing himself for pain, Draco quickly moved to block his way.

There. That ought to teach the stain of wizarding existence to ignore him.

Weasley didn't even frown, damn the boy. He didn't even push him away, which, with this proximity, he had very much the opportunity for.

"Move," he intoned.

His expression was blank, and gave no immediate indication for approaching violence.

But Draco Malfoy saw more than this little vermin could conceal.

He was still smiling, damn him, still laughing over Potter's none-too-clever joke. Draco's eyes slid past the boy's odd face to his neck. Love bites, bruises made from that disgusting mudblood's mouth–

"Okay, I guess that was too complicated for you," Ron chirped, and moved to the side.

Draco's dislike grew tenfold, for this stupid boy was making him hurt his ankle again. Malfoy was forced to quickly dart to the side once more, and block him again.

"Weasel," Draco began, but stopped short.

Suppose this dolt grew violent? And not magically violent–oh no, Ronald Weasley was too much of a barbarian to actually use what god had given him. No, this cretin inexplicably preferred fists when it came to conflicts. Considering that half-wit's absurd amount of muscles–probably from farm work–and Draco's own injury, it would not result in the best circumstances.

His opponent arched an eyebrow expectantly. "Is that it?" He paused, and did not give Draco a chance to insult him further. "Where are the gorillas? Got lost in the loos again? Oh!" Ron snapped his fingers with falsely sudden remembrance. "That's right. Still unconscious from last week's match." He sent a pointed look to Draco's leg. "Shame, isn't it?"

"You don't get to pity me, Weasley," Draco warned him, something inside him making breathing just a bit more difficult. Something inside him was broiling, churning, aching to explode, whispering to Draco just why it was so important not to control this mysterious ire...

"Oh, but I do," Ron said with a laugh. "At least, I pity your team. As pathetic as it sounds, you were the best player now that everybody's graduated."

Damn it all to hell! He was still smiling! His eyes, those stupid, blind eyes, were still laughing.

"You were out of the running long before we were," Draco shot back. His teeth were clenched, as if biting down on white hot, metallic rage.

He wasn't worth it. This lower-crust, common, practically muggle wizard. He wasn't worthy of any emotion except contempt and indifference. Other than that, he was not worth it.

He gave an infuriating shrug. As if he didn't care about these school games. As if he didn't care that Draco held him in such low regard. Weasley even grinned, a little bit.

That dislike surfaced and bubbled into its true form.

"Yes well, there's always next year."

Where the bleedin' hell was the insult? Didn't he know why Draco had blocked his way? How could he stand there so composed, so content, so...so...fucking happy?

"Fuck you, Weasley," Draco spat without warning. His words had cut so sharply in the awkward silence that Ron took a step back. "Oh sorry. That's the mudblood's job, isn't it?"

It was the injury. It was the ridiculously heavy load of books. That was why Ron Weasley had gotten a hold of his neck so easily, and that was why Ron Weasley swung Draco Malfoy against the wall with little effort.

"You," Weasley spoke softly, clearly, "are not allowed to speak of her."

"Mad, aren't you?" Draco smirked, trying his damnedest not to squint and grapple for air. The appallingly callused hand was tight around his neck. "Obsessed with the pretty bint? Don't blame you–she's probably the only thing in your life that didn't come second hand–if you don't believe the rumours."

There was no rumour and there was no reason to say that she was pretty and there was definitely no reason to goad him like this. But somebody had to do it, somebody with more power and more money and more life had to put Ron Weasley in his place.

It was because he was so tall. But only a little. That was why he was able to push Draco harder in the wall. That was why Draco was unable to regain his footing.

"Shut up!"

Yes, that a was good little monkey. So predictable. His father had always said all it took was observation and then recreation to make the lower class behave in desired effects. All it took was a few jabs at his loved ones and this fool repeated all the same behavioral patterns of the brainless poor.

"You know what?" Ron decided challengingly, and released his throttling hold of the slightly shorter, definitely more injured boy. Weasley stepped back, hands in the air. "I won't do it. You're not worth it."

"Sounds like a case of the parrot echoing the mistress," Draco mocked, trying like hell to breathe normally. He refused to gasp, he refused to rub the aching skin. That was an admission of defeat.

"Yes," Ron agreed acidly, nodding. "Yeah, you say that, Malfoy. Go on, do what you do best. Here, let me help you. 'Blah, blah, blah, potty. Blah, blah, blah, mudblood. Blah, blah, blah born in a bin.' There. Is your unhappiness quota filled for today? Or must you go kick a few babies before you go to bed?"

"What makes you think I'm unhappy?" Draco demanded, tenuously restraining the roar inside him. How dare he?

Ron snorted. "Isn't it obvious? All you have is unhappiness. It's in that blood you think is so precious. Otherwise, if you think your fate is so satisfactory, why the bloody hell would you spend so much time and energy trying to dampen others' lives?"

Always think before you speak, Draco.

Ponder all possible consequences before you act, Draco.

Find the weakness and strike, son. Strike so that they could never strike back.

But Draco Malfoy spoke without thinking. He spoke without hesitation. He roared his answer with no shame and no dishonesty.

"Because you don't _deserve _to be happy!"

Ronald Weasley was ugly, poor, and a mediocre wizard. Ronald Weasley had a loving family, a loving girl, and friends. Ronald Weasley wore hand-me-down robes, and had more bad luck than all the Malfoys combined. Ronald Weasley wore smiles, and had more fond memories than all the Malfoys combined.

By all rules of Draco's world, Ronald Weasley had no right to enjoy his meager existence.

And yet he did.

Weasley was regarding him with confusion and, damn him, some worry. "What?"

Draco Malfoy was handsome, rich, and a talented wizard. Draco Malfoy had a cold family, an abhorrent girl who had won his disgust but his father's approval, and barbaric lackeys. Draco Malfoy wore the best robes, and had more treasures than all the Weasleys combined. Draco Malfoy wore frustrated, lonely scowls, and had more chilling memories than all the Weasleys combined.

So it wasn't dislike that fueled Malfoy's fist. It wasn't strong loathing that made him swing with all his might at Weasley's unsuspecting face.

Draco Malfoy _hated _Ron Weasley. He hated him with every single drop of pure blood in his body.

Because "hate" was a much better word than "envy."

It was so satisfying to hear his fist slam against Weasley's jaw, and it was so satisfying to see that happy, poor bastard fall against the wall, and it was so, so satisfying to see that he had cut his knuckle. Those drops of blood were badges of triumph.

And it was so surprising to feel an equally virulent, equally stunning strike in his own face, square on the nose, sending Draco against the wall as well. He was further hindered, however, as the crutches slid haphazardly to the floor. The injured foot connected hard against the stone wall, and in blinding, sparking pain, Draco toppled to the ground.

God damn it, there were rules! Rules Draco never followed, but they existed nonetheless. You don't kick a bloke in the balls. You don't pull hair, or bite, or scratch. You don't injure an already injured man.

And Ron Weasley, with all his sunshine upbringing and blazing morals, would know those rules, and live by them. Draco had been rather counting on the fact when he had landed the cheap shot.

Once the ringing in his ears lessened somewhat, and the multi-coloured blobs stopped dancing in his vision, Draco viewed the retreating opponent with squinted eyes. There was something wrong with this picture.

But then that great oaf, nearly to Snape's door–undoubtedly intending to serve detention or something equally deserved–stopped and looked heavenward. The stupid Weasley sighed, and shook his head. Then, with muttered words that sounded suspiciously like "I'm going to regret this," the boy turned and marched purposefully towards the fallen school mate.

"What? Need to get a few kicks in as well?"

"Shut up," Ron ordered and bent down slightly. He held out a hand.

Draco stared. He was already angry and now he had to add confusion to the mix. "There's nothing in it," he pointed out suspiciously.

Ron rolled his eyes. "One could say the same for your head." He held his hand out with further encouragement.

With some grunts and a few more twinges, Draco could have sufficiently brought himself up. Instead, Malfoy crossed his arms as he leaned back against the grimy wall.

"Why?"

Oh he knew _why_. Those rules of honour and other bollocks. But if Weasley was feeling guilty over what he had done, then Malfoy was going to milk this for all its worth.

Weasley grit his teeth. The roughened hand dropped to his side. Then he straightened. "You know what? Never mind. You're not supposed to kick 'em when they're down, but considering how low you are to begin with, I didn't make much a difference."

"Yeah," Draco mocked, "justify it. Tell yourself it's all right even though we both know it's not."

Malfoy paused, swallowing his words solemnly. Something...something was missing–

Ron clamped his mouth shut and wordlessly shuffled forward to grab Draco's hand.

He watched as is if time had slowed, knowing what was to happen and wondering at the inevitability of it. Yes, he knew what happened now. Just as Potter said, he was to pull this idiot through...through...well, whatever the hell it was. He was to grasp his hand and bring him home.

Draco retracted his hand just before contact was made.

He didn't want to.

Why should this bastard have a second chance? Why should this walking mistake have the privilege of Draco Malfoy's assistance?

But it was more than superciliousness. It was more than annoyance, hatred, and envy.

It was instinct. Something inside Draco told him that if he did this...if Ron Weasley was to regain his old life...Draco Malfoy would lose something in turn. That Draco would sacrifice something to him.

No. He did not want to. Despite not knowing what exactly it was, Draco was unwilling to give up anything of his possession so that Weasley could repossess his meager own.

Inwardly, he smiled. Potter would never know. The hopeful pair would simply take it as "meant to be." He would be given his freedom, escape the country, and never have to witness a pathetic reunion. Never have to read blaring headlines of Weasley's return.

He pulled back his hand some more, ready to airily refuse assistance and spit out another blasting insult to make the creature go away. Let the ceremony pass, enjoy Potter's tears, burn these god awful clothes–

Ron Weasley's eyes narrowed, sharper and stonier than Draco remembered. His freckled expression was harder than ever before, jaw set defiantly.

This...Draco studied his tense stature from head to toe. This...Malfoy did not remember this.

"Oh no you don't," Weasley whispered gravely.

Ron jerkily clasped Draco's hand and yanked him to his feet so swiftly that Malfoy felt a burning sensation in his shoulder. Uselessly, he struggled, attempting another punch, but only a cruel, taunting laughter awaited his fist.

Around him, the walls dimmed into nothing, and the feeble light that had trudged into the dungeons vanished completely. Within a few seconds, everything had changed, wavered, rippled into new shapes, jagged edges, and freezing air.

He could see nothing, feel nothing except for teasing brushes of arctic air. This was not the dungeons, no, but Draco was certain he had not left the school.

The walls shimmered, briefly, long enough to make Draco think he understood. But there was gaping, unholy crack in the wall, one that he did not remember. One of the many things he did not remember.

"Yes," a smooth, jaded voice sliced towards him. "You've never seen the aftermath, have you? Just up and left the party without bothering to clean up."

The tables had been butchered. Sharp wooden points of half chewed furniture laid strewn about the empty hall, as if a happily violent child had taken a hatchet to the room. Draco, amazed and sickened, wanted to move as strange darts of silver bolted through the walls. But the streams of light never moved where he wanted them to. That tall, menacing shadow in the corner stayed just that; a shadow, a silhouette of breathing anger. The floors, caked with death and darkness, remained unknown territory to the shuffling visitor. When he looked up, Draco saw not the enchanted ceiling but the gaping maw of the suffocating, murky skies.

"Where am I?"

"The hell of your own creation," Ron blithely answered, inexplicably closer than Draco remembered. He hadn't walked, that much was certain. Malfoy had lifted his own foot in an effort to wade through the decay only to find it bumping irreverently into a soft, cold corpse. A class mate.

"No, I reckon you wouldn't find this place too disturbing," the solid black outline chuckled, walking to and fro before Draco's trapped eyes. "Probably had enemy corpses lining the walls back home, eh?"

Draco ground his teeth, not bothering to answer. There was not enough time to answer, not with this horrific, clenching sensation thundering inside him. It was screaming and roaring, telling him to _Get out! Get out! _Before it was too late.

But time, both slow and blindingly fast, was different here. Here, Draco simply did not know. He didn't know what he was. Not dead, no, with that blessed repose there was a nothingness, of that Draco was certain. When he died, there wouldn't be this seizing grip on every heart beat. When he died, there wouldn't be these claws of ice on his back, pushing him and pulling him to oblivion. When he died, there wouldn't be this ghoulish uncertainty.

Half whispers and chilling laughter. Screams of jabbing agony. What was that? What the hell was that buzz under the grotesque swirls of awareness?

"Different words for it," the other man answered flippantly. "Subconscious. The spiritual plane. Dream world... as for me, I call it one hell of a headache."

He had to get out.

Those capricious glints on the walls, breathing and jumping from each war-crumbled structure, halted then waited with vibrating impatience. Unable to speak, unable to move, Draco could only watch in abject horror as the spellbound lights swayed and swam to the dusky figure. Millions of silvery streams smoothly traversed the demolished hall to where the stranger stood, one by one alighting that foreign face. In what might have been a second or an eternity, Draco stayed fixed in morbid fascination.

Then, as the last light gave intent illumination to Ronald Weasley's eyes, Draco understood.

No.

_No._

"Don't you _dare _leave me here!"

xoxox

**And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee. **

**Friedrich Neitzche**


	21. I Heart Weasleys

**Okay, who the hell opened up the polls? I'm not taking votes people. Even if I were, chances are I'd rig the whole damn thing any way, claiming that the ballots were "too confusing"... And, believe me, I know that it's been a while. When so many people start rereading the fic, it's a pretty big clue that I've got to hurry the hell up.**

**And, as I'm sure you all know by now...I do not like Draco. But, reviewing his history in the books, I'll give him this: He's witty, that one. Would have done wonders on his verbals. Sometimes, I found myself snickering at his insults...only to berate myself in horror when I remembered who he was insulting. So there. Just thought I'd share.**

**:0)**

**Edited 3/26/05 (about 9 hours after I posted): I forgot to mention that with loverly PythonBlossom, a yahoogroup for my fics has been created. You can criticize, discuss, theorize, or write outtakes about my silly stuff there. Hope this isn't pompous of me!**

http:groups.yahoo. com/group/ AdelaideEfics?yguid217572537

**firefirefly:** In response to the "A Marauder's Memory" review: Oh god:0D I laughed so hard reading that parody! Sad thing is, when you give a Mary Sue writer a link to a parody, and they actually read it..."What? I...I...I don't get it. What does this have to do with my story?" Except, you know...with a lot more spelling errors, and then a shameless plug for their MS at the end of their review. Sigh. I guess all we can do is try.

And, in response to this review: AHA! CONVERTED! ADD THAT TO THE TALLY! I mean...ahem...well, I thank you for your review. While I appreciate the inputs, I'll just let the course of the story decide who ends up with whom (wouldn't it be funny if the Story decides that Ron and Draco should end up together? Well, it'd be funny to me, at least!)

**alexiaseventy-five**: You read all twenty chapters at once! Quick, get thee to an optometrist. You may go blind.

Aw! Thanks so much, about that first chapters-uneasiness bit. I try...:blushes modestly:

Yes, while there's the part of Hermione that would fight it, there's the loyalty part of her that won't allow it. Why is it that girls are always so emotionally crapped on?

And, while it was an interesting theory (one that would have been incredibly hard to write out) I'm sorry, no. Still, good effort!

Lucky you, you didn't have to wait as long for the update. I'm hoping that It won't be a chapter-a-month, because that's just too frustrating.

I'm glad I kept you entertained through your exams–mine are near ending, so thanks for cheerful reviews!

**Lillian-is-fickle**: Hooray! Even if it is exhaustingly long, at least it's unique! Thanks so much for all the nice things you said/typed/whatevered. And, don't worry. No killings of Draco. It'd be easier, mind you, for my frustrated creativity, but I made a promise, and I intend to keep it. No dead Draco. Now, castrated Draco...just kidding. I won't render him sterile either. Though, really, despite your love for him, one must admit...bastard deserves something! Thanks for the luv!

**Bella**: Gotta warn you. Don't "don't you dare" me, or I will dare. Most of my mischievous and incredibly stupid childhood mistakes began with a dare. So yeah. Fair warning.

If Draco's gone, how will Hermione ever live? How, you ask? Well...with a great deal less angst, I'll tell you that much!

I liked that story about your fiancé; I thought that only happened in commercials! But, it was very good, your reasoning. Selfish Bastards do not need clothes.

"The Philippines how absolutely lovely!" Wha... No, really, no. Not when there's the Music Midtown going on! Three days of The Killers, Keane, and everybody else... And I'll be out of the country! Lifetotally unfair!

I imagine that you're rolling your eyes by now. Only brats complain about month long vacations in tropical places...but yeah, I'm a brat. I'd rather choose music than the beach. If I could, I'd manage to send you my ticket.

**your illusion 02: **That's a very specific number:0D Any special meaning for "9321"? Any who, I'm very okay with my current "306," so if I'm not sweating it, no need for you to generously sweat it either. I wouldn't call Harry devious...just...um...inventive. Yeah. Inventive. It sounds a lot less Slytherinish. Thanks for the review!

**PythonBlossom: **Ladies and Gentleman...I hereby declare PythonBlossom writer of longest review for chapter 20...and, possibly, the entire world.

:0D

Yes, I stand unashamed. Bill IS a long haired hippie...but a hot one. So bygones.

I think I told the joke wrong. Pretty sure there was more to it, but I have a habit of screwing up jokes. It's a play on wood pecker...heehee...well, I liked it, any way.

I think Tom juice is just what Harry needs. I mean, it's done wonders for him. He outsmarts the Ministry, Draco, Hermione...and he's very lovely to look at. That might just be him, though, with no juice influence. Right. Gotta stop saying "juice."

I loved the quote and I love that title. Weird thing is, I found the quote on an index card from my middle school days. I don't know where it's from, and why I wrote it at the time, but hey. Works for me.

I suppose logic has very little to do with love–especially when it comes to Draco Malfoy. Poor Hermione.

I hope I clarified all the confusing issues. The flashbacks with Harry and Hermione were accurate and happened in the year...the one with Draco was modified slightly, a mix of past and present day stuff.

The "checkered past" part was just a reference to Draco's dishonorable past, and how, even though he seems like he's willing to give up shady activities for Hermione (well, when he remembers that he loves her, any way) he's still got a lot to answer for.

And, I think you'll find a few more references to the "double" stuff. If you figure it out...ssshhh! ;0D

As for Draco knowing that Larry is his...I suppose that's a word choice error of my part. He doesn't know it's his, but, regardless of whose baby it is, he's not willing to hex it just to get to Hermione.

Concerning a Snape fic...well, there's definitely a lot of material there. But I don't think I'm interested in him enough to write on him. Most of the time, I find myself hating him when I read the books, but that's me for you. Waaaayyyy too into it.

I would have (wrongly) interpreted that last piece of advice as permission to take years updating, but then I decided I didn't want any email threats. So here you go...how long did it take me? A month? That's not so bad!

Thanks so much for telling me all the bits you enjoyed; I'm glad it was a mix of the silly and the serious.

**Brandybuckbeak: **How could Harry do that? Well, years of surrounding sneakiness has ultimately tainted him. Isn't he sexy when he's scheming? Sigh...

And was it Omarosa there? Well, now, can't have a Harry Potter Fic without some random evilness popping up once in a while!

Lovely, isn't he? Ron I mean. I lurve him. I think you already know that, so I'll refrain from gushing.

Let's see...this time, around...still within the 8 year limit, right? Or have I annoyed everybody by taking eternity?

All right. Sue me. I'll get my magic eightball and mine holy series of Harry Potter. We'll see what happens in trial.

(And, no, that was not a hint as to what happens in this chapter. That was me just being silly.)

**sugar n spice 522: **Wait...what? Did I totally befuddle you? Sorry! Heehee, but, oh it's so much fun! All righty, though, it's not nice to enjoy reader's confusion, so here you go. Go on reading!

**missb: **Hello there, and thank you for the lovely compliments! Considering that experts don't really know if heaven and hell exist, I don't really like their label for the space in between. Limbo sounds very silly. So, to answer your question as to what is that depressing place of stucky-ness...I dunno. Newark:0D

And I won't tell you whether Ron is evil or not, because that would spoil it...but, I think you already know the answer. I think I was channeling my own frustration with her when I wrote Harry's insults, but, to be fair, she landed a few barbs too.

The only scene that changed was that one with Draco. Otherwise, everything happened exactly as depicted...here, in my delusional world where fics are real...

I've thought about posting else where, but I think I'll wait till I"m finished. Last thing I need is even more pressure!

No need to duck for your vote–as innocuous as it may be–I'll protect you:0D Happy reading.

**RebeccaChoong: **Oh we won't get into that whole "not enough reviews" shpiel. I assure you, I'm very okay. All right, I'll blame myself for the long review, because, really, I don't mind them! I'll put your vote with the other votes...the Pile of Ineffectual but Appreciated Things. Thanks!

**loverlydaisy520: **All righty, all righty, hooray for democracy. And, as much as I appreciate your vote...well, I won't ruin it for you. You may be satisfied any how. Happy birthday 18 year old! Welcome to the legal age of...lottery tickets...and smoking...er, yeah...not much to celebrate, but still. Belated "happy birthday!" to you! Hope you had fun!

**kannnichtfranzoesisch: **Wow. Some name you've got there. Why is it oddly familiar? Hmm...mystery... Aw, wow! I managed slapstick ,and I've never really known the exact definition of that! I have to tell you, I rather like goodOldAnnoying! Draco much better. It's easier to write him mean than emotional. Oh, and just so you know...Ron eyes you warily as well. Beware:0D Any who, ignore all my silliness, and enjoy the chapter.

**ForYourLungs: **Heya, I very much appreciate your near religious dedication. I'm glad you liked that line! I found it very sensible. And sorry to have kept you aching for this chapter for so long!

**DracoDraconis: **Well, congrats on your clean carpet. More than I can say for mine, at least. At any rate, no matter what this is nominated for, I don't think I'd win anything. It doesn't really fit into the criteria that these fanfic awards specify, so I won't cry if nothing happens. I think I'll take your suggestion of a nap...I've got the snifflies...:0(

Oh, and response to your review of A Marauder's Memory: Aw, thanks! You cried for my fic! Well, I guess technically, you cried for the Potter family, but I'll be vain. I hope you didn't get too many strange looks from your class!

**Cylvie: **The bit about Lockhart was just a sensible side note. Because they mentioned some improvement in the book, I figured that, by that time, he'd be well enough to leave Mungo's. That's all. :0)

**Sissero**: Well, as many tragic movies has taught me, even heartless bitches can cry too. That, or my eyes were leaking. Either way, I'm very much flattered by your reaction! Actually, considering what I've done fanfics, I've loads of breakdowns on my conscience, so I'm guessing one more won't hurt much. :0) Just kidding...or am I? Mwu-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Ahem. Pardon me and my momentary lapse of evil laughing. And, beg your pardon, but how is Draco brilliant? Harry's doing a great deal you know! I'm sure he'd be very put out knowing Draco's getting praise when he's the one doing the work! But then again, that might be the cradle robber in me speaking.

Well...I'm starting to think everybody hates Fanfiction Fido. And I think I hate him too.

Any who, you know my stance on the voting thing. And I'm amazed and flattered that you're rereading it. I'm guessing by your last review that somebody in class is butchering the beauty of Shakespeare? Sorry to hear that!

Response to A Maruder's Memory: I always get super annoyed when writers show Peter as a "little ass" in the MWPP era fics. I mean, he didn't betray them until way later, so why assume that he was always so underhanded? In his teens no less! So, while I suppose I tried to stick to his clingy, somewhat weak-minded personality, but I tried to make him normal as well.

**melanie**: Hmm...pretty sure that for me to accept the title "o holy one" would guarantee a lightning bolt...but then I'd get a cool Harry scar, so whoopee! Sorry for the delay!

**Zyzychyn**: Well, have no fear. No amount of words can disturb the tension, so say as much as you'd like! Thanks, though. Your thoughtfulness is appreciated. :0)

**GIRL W/PNK CONVERSE**: Wow, I believe that's the strongest reaction I've ever gotten from you! Hooray for me! Glad to know that you don't know what to expect, but I think that this next chapter is just the expected. Does that make sense:0)

**Monkeystarz**: Ron hasn't turned evil! Just...superheroish. Putting bad guys where they belong:0D Well, that's my take on it, any how.

Actually, I think that you managed to confuse me as well, in your review. But don't feel bad, I find myself confused on many occasions!

Well, now, here. I've updated. Your eyes can be overfilled with anything you like. Happy reading.

**insipidparagon**: Hi! I've got to say, I loved your reaction. "Oh. Oh damn." :0D I very much liked the chapter too! Er...NO I wasn't just flattering my creative choices! Sheesh, just how arrogant do you think I am:shifty eyes:

Mental meltdowns are fun! They let you lose weight through the copious amount of tears. See? Bright side to everything!

Really, there ought to be a public announcement. Dean is in the movies! He was the one who walked through a ghost! I loved that small bit, and so I was (and still am) bewildered by these suggestions that Snotty-Omniscient-Boy is Dean. Grr, Steve Kloves, grr.

I love Ramen noodles! My favorite is creamy chicken. 79 cents and almost like a full meal! Cheaper than Wendy's, at least. And I envy you, despite of your constant diet of noodles and pizza! You're already a grad student! I'm just a poor, lost, aimless undergrad. Woe is me. And you. Woe is the both of us. Oh well. We have our addictions, at least! Surely addictions are good for poor people:0( Hmm...that doesn't look so sensible outside my head...

Do you know, if there was a sort of competition for accidentally (? I am suspicious, you know) saying lewd things, I'd say you'd be the champion:0)

I've adopted your principle of No Work on Spring Break...and am now paying for it.

I believe George is not just a party. He's a lovely combination of five million parties. And the most lovely part? There's another one:D And, woohoo for Chapter 13! The return of Fred-loveliness!

I've just realized that I seem very fond of the word "lovely." Hmmm...

**Athena Linborn**: Oh come now. Surely the last cliff hanger wasn't that bad? I mean...doesn't everybody like suspense? I think I've read in a scientific journal magazine that suspense is a contributor to good skin. (Warning...I think I just made that last fact up.) Any who, you gravely underestimate, and I thank you for the compliment. Yes, Athena, I can most assuredly be "that mean." Usually I try to curb cruelty however, and save it for family gatherings. :0)

Oh, and yes, Lawrence is an advanced baby. Technically a month and a few days old, but, whew. Medical wonder there. (My own way of subtly relaying the fact that I have no knowledge whatsoever of babies. Except, you know...avoid them.)

And, as you probably already know, I haven't been good and I did not update soon. Sorry. :0D

**Breanna Senese**: All right, all right, I won't tell you that Ron's going to leave Draco there. You could just read it for yourself:0D Just kidding. But seriously...I'm guessing you wouldn't want me to spoil it for you, so go on. Have fun reading!

**the quiet 1**: Hey, glad I got a "yaysies." Hard to come by, those things. And when it comes to emotionally sterile Draco, I actually find it a bit fun. I found it more difficult to write an emotionally capable Draco, so this was a lovely respite from that.

I find it perfectly amazing how some people can have gorgeous, intriguing summaries, and then have a plot that's as old as dirt. Why couldn't they spread that talent evenly:0(

And that's enough from me. :0)

**aurelione**: Heya. Yeah, I've noticed that when I get my author alerts (for other stories, I mean. I'm not so vain that I'd author alert myself!) I can't excess it. Usually, I have to wait a few hours for it to show up on the chapter menu scrolly thingy.

And, I'm glad you liked the Harry-Hermione confrontation. It was bound to happen, wasn't it:) In any case, I found myself wincing for both Hermione and Harry's sake while I wrote it, but then I shrugged it off. Somebody has to tell the truth, even if it hurts, just a bit. And, my oh my. Isn't that a pretty phrase? "Spell motherfucking bound." I think it's funny. :0)

The Painted Past

Chapter 21

**Mais d'aventure en aventure  
De train en train, de port en port  
Jamais encore, je te le jure  
Je n'ai pu oublier ton corps**

xoxox

They sat in cold, white light, the force of which pushed any unnecessary words into silence for a long time. It didn't hurt, not like they had expected. And there was no hollowness, as one might have assumed. Instead, it was both. Empty, echoing, filled with something false and unsatisfactory. What now? Were they to fill the void with excuses, and clichés?

_It wasn't meant to be._

_He's in a better place now._

_We tried our best._

Those words meant nothing to the drilling in their hearts. Those words were dust to the disappointed day.

Each sunrise, each heart beat, each undeserved laugh...he had considered them, every single one, as a sort of countdown to this day. This horrible, wonderful morning. This was the day that he would transform into one wreathed with smiles.

"Harry," Hermione called out dully, eyes cast down on the bench. Her limbs hung limply to the sides, as if not daring to touch these new shiny materials that meant Ron's absence. Continued, eternal absence. "Harry."

He didn't answer. He stood, staring around him desperately. He didn't understand. Where was Ron? Why hadn't he come? If not Hermione and if not himself...then who would–

"Once," she spoke up, clearing her throat. The action was futile, for tears coated her words any way. "Once, I had wandered into the fiction section of a bookstore, although I had meant to pick up a book on botany."

"Stop it, Hermione," he murmured tiredly, listlessly walking around, studying the area. Something went wrong. Was it the ingredients? Or was it the timing? The pocket watch was more accurate than Big Ben, the dealer had assured him–

"And there was this book," she continued helplessly, biting back sobs. "There was this book about people like us, but not us. Just a muggle's version of us. But it was lovely, Harry, oh god, it was lovely. People who died were reborn. People who didn't deserve to die came back, with another chance to fix things."

"Shut up, Hermione," he begged, collapsing against the bench opposite hers. "Just stop it, please! Can't you just be quiet for a second?"

"And the witches," Hermione spoke through a shuddering breath, "when they saw each other, they just knew. They just knew that they were magical and they didn't care about talent or family or beliefs. They knew who they were, and do you know what they said, Harry? Do you know what they said when they greeted each other?"

Harry shook his head. What were the odds that Ron would choose Draco? Why? Why? There was no reason. And, would Malfoy even do his part, would that bastard willingly and correctly help his best friend through the veil–

"They said 'unity,'" she wept loudly. "They said unity as if it were true. As if it were all fucking perfect because they were fellow outcasts."

_That's why it was fiction_,_ Hermione_. But he didn't speak. Oh god, Harry was just too tired to speak. He had never possessed the energy that fueled Hermione for so long.

"Why can't it be like that Harry? Why couldn't they and we...We're all just people Harry. Why did they have to take him away?"

Still...Ron always had a strange sense of humour.

"It doesn't make sense, if Ron has to just–just exist without acknowledgment, without being seen or heard or felt–"

And Ron had something of a temper.

"I want another chance, Harry, to tell him the truth. I want the jumper back, Harry, I want it all back. It felt right, just then, it felt so, so right..."

Harry's feet turned towards the door. His heart followed suit a minute later.

Perhaps revenge was what he had in mind, instead of reunion.

The spell wasn't over. Harry felt it pulsing, breathing, slithering just below their feet. It was faint, but hell, it was real.

"I never imagined it wouldn't work. I doubted, yes, I doubted, but it never crossed my mind–"

He was running now, hearing his own heartbeat thunder persistently in his ears as if through a static cloud. The doors meant nothing, the steps meant nothing, the dry dirt and the indifferent cobwebs, it was all rubbish–

He skidded to a stop before Snape's door. He stared at it hard, wondering if Draco had participated in the ceremony in Snape's class room. No wait, that had been Hermione's–hang on, now it was Remus'–

"Is now the appropriate time to make a knock-knock joke?"

xoxox

_Neutiquam erro._

_Neutiquam erro._

_I am not lost._

"I am not lost."

The words meandered out of the supine boy's mouth and into the apathetic, silent air.

Blimey. Ron blinked once, twice, and three times at the familiar ceiling. Then, because he was lying in a place not meant for lying in, he quickly picked himself up and stretched. He was making sure he'd never endure that again.

Faintly, he thought that his legs should have been wobbly. That, maybe, his muscles ought to have ached from disuse. That his eyes should have squinted with sensitivity.

But the only complaints Ron Weasley could make was the fact that he still had splinters from the broken tables, and the rivulet of dried blood that crossed his right eye was now flaky and itchy.

Funny, he thought as he stood and looked around him. How silent it was! Even in the dank dungeons, there was always some noise to be heard. The grumbling of unhappy students. The scurrying of greedy rats. The flapping of a certain greasy old bat's wings.

After an eternity–or had it only been a few minutes?–of simply _feeling _sounds, second hand, this solid, physical world should have stunned him with a horrible tangle of noises. Things like footsteps were deafening explosions compared to the silence in which Ron had stayed.

Slowly and experimentally, Ron rubbed the caked blood and dirt off his hand and onto the rough texture of the wall. In the half darkness, he watched as maroon chips fell from his fingertips and onto the ground. Never in his weirdest dreams would he have imagined such a mundane sensation to be so fascinating.

He looked down, and stomped each foot loudly, like a toddler who had rediscovered his limbs after forgetting them a day before. Right, left, right left. How long had it been, since he had been able to step on unoccupied, solid, well-lit ground? Ages? Moments? His body felt young, but his spirit felt old, some how. Ancient. Dumbledore-ish.

The Weasley shook his head, hating the bewildering amount of cobwebs clouding his thoughts. To say it felt as if he had been waking up from a frightful dream seemed like a terribly unoriginal thing to utter. Hermione always frowned upon unoriginality. It had been good luck, really, that Ron had been too poor to woo her in the normal, trite ways.

But now was not the time for fluffy reminiscing, of course. Ron squared his shoulders, and quickly peeked inside the potions room, idly wondering if his shoulder had always hurt this much.

Nobody there. Nobody any where, by the looks of it.

Ron narrowed his eyes, and softly shut the door. In the dusky corridor, he tried his best to solve this puzzle.

But it was impossible. Not even geniuses could explain the absence of students and professors in the middle of January. Nobody could explain why Ron felt as if he had been sleeping for a thousand years and yet found nothing more pleasing than the thought of his old bed in the Burrow. Nobody could explain why he felt utterly alone, yet reconnected with the world once more.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap..._

Ron stilled, his heart literally skipping a beat, as a foreign noise assailed his ears. Merlin, how strange that was! It actually took a few moments for him to identify the alarming sounds as footsteps, of somebody who was apparently in a hurry. Amazed, he shook his head.

It was stupid, so, so stupid to be chuffed at the sound of footsteps. He didn't even know who it was. For all he knew, it was a Death Eater, or a Slytherin, or an angry professor, or...hell, just a stranger. It could have been just a total, unknown character...and Ronald Weasley was elated.

Somebody was coming. Somebody else would be where he was. There should have been no joy related to that simple fact. And yet there was.

That naive relief vanished just before the newcomer appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Good grief, it was this sort of stupidity that had allowed the Death Eaters to...to...well, do whatever they had done to him, before. Ron decided he did not want a repeat of that nightmarish episode, and swiftly darted to the wall to press himself flat against it before he could be seen.

The figure who dashed down to the dungeons in a breathless, billowing hurry had been a professor, and Ron let out an unnoticeable sigh of relief. He hadn't done anything wrong, really. Just standing around, trying to figure out just what the hell happened. But, as past detentions had taught him, standing about and doing nothing tended to result in punishment any way. Especially if one was doing such delinquent activities in the dungeons.

But the professor didn't enter the classroom. Strange as this staring session was, Ron thought it just right. This emerald clad man–well, young man, by the looks of it–he just didn't seem like a potions professor. He had no right to enter that classroom. Only Snape did.

Slightly, Ron relaxed as his scrutiny deepened. No longer did he cower against a wall, for this young man, this rushed stranger...was familiar.

Ron pushed himself off the rough stone, and stepped closer, quietly. The other boy reached his nose.

The taller ones remembered, of course, just where the shorter ones met their bodies. For instance, the top of Hermione's head was somewhere around Ron's shoulder. The top of Ginny's was the same, perhaps a few inches taller. Harry's stature met Ron's nose–or Ron's eyebrows, Harry used to insist when they competed on such trivial matters during the absence of ladies.

Now Ron stood directly behind him. Staring his nose down at him.

What the bloody hell– Ron grinned as he stopped the thought half way. Well, he supposed it was inevitable, like taxes and death. Harry Potter was bound to comb his hair proper one of these days.

Speaking of strange happenings...why the hell was Harry staring at that door?

It wasn't doing anything. It seemed to be replaced, a newer, less battered wood now standing guard over the intimidating room. But it wasn't a magical portal and nor was it a very pretty shade of brown. So why was his best mate so fixated on that slab of wood?

"Is now the appropriate time to make a knock-knock joke?" he asked in a respectful whisper.

Harry turned so swiftly that his elbow rammed into Ron's ribs, causing the injured party to jerk away and clutch his side. Despite the sharp, unexpected pain, Ron laughed. Harry's loud gasp and wide eyed stare was simply too comical.

But Harry wasn't laughing. The professor looked at–well, more like _up_, he thought–Ron with wide eyes and a frozen expression of surprise. For a few seconds, his jaw moved like hinge that sorely needed oiling, and the rusty, uneven noises that tumbled out of his mouth frightened Ron so much that he stepped back. Harry's body was tense and heaving with laboured breaths, hands unable to do anything except dangle uselessly at his sides. Ron stared at those hands, ink stained and nails bitten. Ron looked up at Harry's face, forehead unmarred and eyes older. And Ron understood.

Ron suddenly saw that he was not bigger than Harry. That Harry had grown up, and learned things, and changed things...without him.

Ron finally acknowledged that, no matter how much he made light of it, he hadn't simply been "gone." He hadn't left for a few minutes. These silvery threads of confusion would forever shroud his mind, for he had stayed too long in that dark place to be left unscathed.

And, looking into Harry's eyes, Ron knew that the world he had left was gone, forever.

It almost made him wish he had stayed dead.

But then Potter smiled, and the odd choking noise erupted into embarrassingly loud laughter. Before Ron could react, he was constricted in what had to be the most uncomfortable embrace he had ever endured with another male.

He wanted to pull away, because he liked the ribs the way they were, thank you very much, but instinctively, Ron guessed that Harry needed this hug more than anything. So, hoping that information of this embrace would never reach the twins' ears, Ron shrugged and hugged Harry back.

While doing so, he had a very Ronnish thought. _Merlin. It was a miracle Ginny didn't break this skinny body while they were dating._

"Hey Harry?" He asked while Harry kept laughing in that mad, contagious way.

"Yeah?"

"This is the part where we spring apart and shake hands in a manly way."

Harry sighed, pushed Ron and took a good look at him. He was still wearing his robes, though now they were dingy with dust, torn with injuries, and occasionally splattered with blood. The cut above his right eye had scabbed over, leaving a curiously wavy shaped scar. Dried blobs of blood were matted in his eyebrow and eye lashes, and a bruise sat proudly at the corner of his mouth. He was a tall, awkward young man with too many freckles and no grace.

Ron Weasley never looked better.

There were many things to be said. Rubbish about being best friends, practically brothers, everlasting chums...Harry had planned, for quite a while, what he wanted to say to Ron. Tell him off for leaving so abruptly. Stutter through his conveyance of appreciation for Ron's friendship. Perhaps even subtly mix in the word "love," in there, if it wouldn't terribly embarrass them both.

And yet, as they stood for a few minutes, simply staring, a silent understanding passed between them. They both knew, whether one mumbled it or not. They loved one another. They had forged something that was entirely unique. Not the same sort of bond Ron possessed with his brothers. And not the same sort of bond Harry possessed with his other best friend. Even if they had not bumped into one another at the train station, and even if neither had attended the same school...each had a feeling that, no matter what the conditions, they would have wound up as inseparable best friends.

Harry reached out and clasped Ron's hand warmly. He shook it heartily and laughed.

"Manly enough for you?"

"I doubt you're manly enough for anything," Ron replied. They spent a few minutes that way, shaking hands, but not because of prolonged affection. They were doing a silly competition of who could squeeze whose hand with the utmost pain, until Harry frowned slightly.

"You're nearly late, you know."

Ron appeared unaffected by Harry's disapproval. "Really?" he chirped.

"Yeah. Right on the cusp there."

"Ah, but 'right on the cusp' still counts," Ron pointed out sensibly. Harry opened his mouth to respond, but then noticed something over Ron's shoulder.

"Is that Malfoy?"

"Unless he's got a flat chested twin sister," Ron chuckled carelessly. He stepped to the side as Harry, scarily like a responsible professor, fell to his knees beside the unconscious bastard. None too gently, Potter slapped the blonde boy, calling out his name. "Leave him be," Ron advised. "He's sleeping."

Harry looked up at Ron with a concerned expression, which clearly stated his worry of Ron having gone mad. Considering the circumstances, it was a very rational fear.

"He's more than sleeping."

"He'll wake up in due time," Ron assured him.

"He has a black eye!"

"He must have fallen strangely. Trust Malfoy to even do gravity wrong."

Harry shook his head, and studied the unconscious fugitive with pursed lips. Did Ron know what had occurred during the last two years? Was that why Malfoy lay out cold in this corridor? Or had Ron simply been Ron, and reacted with what felt right, with no knowledge of the current drama? Oh god, Harry thought. Potter sincerely hoped it was the former. How the hell was a man supposed to break the news to his best mate? Just how the bloody hell was he going to tell Ron his fiancée had been remarried–sort of–and impregnated? That the son of his enemy had soaked his bed in baby fluids? That his family was mourning him this very second? That Hedwig had attempted to kill Pig out of sheer annoyance on three separate occasions?

"Ron," he began uncertainly, and cleared his throat when an odd note of fear had cracked out. "You've been...that is to say, two years ago..."

Then a thought occurred to the newly returned Weasley. A thought that had always occurred to him in the old days. At least every hour or so. And guilt racked at him for not thinking it sooner.

"Where's Hermione?"

xoxox

It had taken a few minutes of incoherent weeping for Hermione to realise that Harry had left her. Upon the discovery of the abandonment, Hermione could only laugh, for there were no tears left. Of course Harry had left her. Didn't they always?

She wiped at her eyes as her gaze focused vacantly on the windows. She had only been in this crystal silence for a few minutes. And it was enough to drive her mad.

Ron had stayed in this rigid world for two years. How could he stand it? Why would he want to stay? Did he prefer this smothering nothing to the real world?

Her fist fell onto the table, and she relished the dull pain.

There was a gash in her heart, roughly ripped when she and Ron decided to part so many tears ago. One that had been badly mended. It had been a rapid bandage, half done and useless. An optimist's healing. Hermione had let it bleed precious drops each day, each hour, because somewhere inside her, a voice said that there was no need to permanently a seal loving cut. Ron would come back. Ron would come back and stop the hurting, just as he always promised he would. He would stop her pains or die trying.

And he died trying.

Some people–heartless, cruel people–would say that she had been living without Ron for months now. That she should have been used to it. That she still had one man left who loved her, so it was all going to be all right.

That was an optimist's lie.

Because, yes, she had lived without Ron for months now. She had made the decision even before the war had made the decision for her. But, during the seasons in which there was no freckle faced man to tease her and protect her, Hermione learned that she could live without Ron, Draco, and any one else. But she didn't want to. While she continued without him, she persevered _with the thought of him_. When she cried because the void inside her was growing greyer and colder, the thought of Ron sent a small, flickering candle in the vast darkness.

They had all been guilty of it. Making the past into what they desired. The stinging had always been more than simply missing him. The aches had always been more than simply wanting him back. What had she told Draco? That it was easy to paint oneself into an innocent, blameless victim. It had been the guilt of dismissing him and rejecting him that accompanied every shameful heart beat. Her mind, swift and able, was still attempting to reclaim the memories of the night before, of what exactly she had said to make their beautiful love rupture and hemorrhage so fatally. The jagged recollections always seemed a breath away, just out of reach, and she was not so certain that she wanted them restored any way. Not when the mere references to them made her feel like this.

She needed him back. She needed him back to fix things, to make him see the truth. That she loved him. When pride and rows and jumpers were set aside, the truth remained. She loved him.

So where was he, then? Rotting away in his obsidian world? Or was he perfectly preserved, untouched by time and emotions. He had made one man incurably mad for her. He had interfered with his friends' dreams for her. He had lived through mayhem and fallen through the webs, bled his smiles onto the enemy's hands and swam through nightmares, stayed Ron but then changed Ron...all for her.

But he would not come for her.

And she would never see him again.

Her eyes darted to the monument. Specially requested by Hermione Granger. Specially designed by Hermione Granger. Specially ordered, polished, and placed by Hermione Granger, because she had wanted Ronald Weasley to laugh when he returned.

But he would not come to see it.

And she might never laugh again.

She had wanted to show him Lawrence. She had wanted to see him holding him, probably clumsy with him, but trying nonetheless. She longed to hear his revulsion of the diaper smell, his laughter of infantile antics, and his admiration of her son. Her ginger haired, prodigal son. The son that was not his own.

But he would not come to hold him.

And she would never introduce Lawrence to the one man–boy–soul who had first captured her heart.

There was a knock on the door. The open door. And Hermione fought the urge to snap, to scold him, and say that there was no need to knock on an open door, for such a condition welcomed anybody to wander in.

_Everybody knows that, Ronald Bilius Weasley._

She knew, the second his large feet had stepped onto the new floor, that he was here. The air didn't sizzle, not like it did when Draco entered a room. Her heart didn't race, not like it did when Draco stared at her intensely. And her breath didn't grow short, not like it did when Draco held her close.

The air, the room, the world grew warmer as Ronald Weasley took one cautious step closer to her. Her heart called out, recognising and welcoming its twin as his pulse, racing and nervous, gradually flowed closer to her. And her lungs released a long, shuddering sigh of relief, as if, for the first time in a long time, she could truly breathe again. Her body, exhausted and tingling, relaxed as Ron steadily placed one foot before the other...and he never quite finished that fifth step.

_We're us again._ It was a ridiculous thought. Preposterous and overly hopeful. There were too many problems and complications to assume that this Ron was her Ron. And, even if it was "her" Ron, that boy had agreed with her hasty declaration of ending the engagement. She had no Ron, so it was far too premature to assume–

Still. Hermione took another deep breath and smiled a shaky, nervous smile. _We're us again_.

He stared at her as he entered the room. She had looked into those ocean blue eyes a million times. She recalled the flecks of light blue peppering the puddles of darker cerulean. There existed a liquid warmth in his gaze, a contagious hopefulness that was as absurd as it was perpetual. Many a time she would be ready to burst with exasperation, wondering the why's and the how's of Ron's behaviour...only to catch a glimpse of his well-meaning, unashamed eyes, and then fall short. She couldn't blame him for being Ron. For that was the only thing he wanted to be.

Tragedy stretched languorously in his once untainted face, insolently announcing its ineffable damage.

Hermione shook her head, abruptly wondering at her own stupidity. How could she have blamed the absence, their separation, and the darkness as the culprit of his change? Ronald Weasley, with or without the war, would have evolved no matter what the circumstance.

"Please," he suddenly spoke up, voice overly loud in the anticipating hall. It broke her heart, the pleading in his tone, and how he unsuccessfully attempted to hide it. "Don't. Don't shake your head like that. Don't frown like that. Don't–oh, please, Hermione! Don't _cry!_"

She was still shaking her head, wordlessly swinging her feet over the bench to stand. A wild, unabashed shriek of joy sprang from her lips as she raced towards him, hating how slow her chubby feet were now, and hating how he simply_ stood there_, no help at all, in pure surprise, and loving, loving, _loving _how he was back, and Ron, and utterly hers. She was crying, despite his panicked request, tears spilling out of her wistful eyes without any indication of stopping. He would not reach for her, but that fear of forever had been too much. She would not let awkwardness and self-doubt to hinder her now. If he had been waiting for permission, she would not speak it. Her hands trembled, so much so that he reached up to steady them, as she wrapped them tightly and swiftly around his neck.

He leaned his head upon her eyes, closing his own as her hair tickled his brow. Their noses touched with familiar clumsiness, and Hermione felt his words, hot and sincere, on her face.

"I would have stayed there forever, if I had known you would cry."

And then his lips hovered about hers, a waiting, frail question breathing against the tense skin.

_May I, Hermione?_

She was impatient, his love, and persistently pressed her answer on his mouth.

_You better, Ron._

He tasted like life and tears, a heady mix of past and present. She was dizzy with bliss, weaving in between the bright colours of his eyes. Shrieks of wild laughter rang in her mind. Cascading shimmers echoed in the caverns of her heart.

_Smile now, Hermione. It's allowed._

And she smiled, so much that it hurt. And she kissed him, so much that she feared to let go. And she cried, because there was just too much, blessedly too much, to be kept inside.

"Are you real?" she asked, words tumbling out unsteadily. Her lips, wet with tears and his kisses, brushed against his. He was breathing heavily, looking more disheveled than ever. Hermione thought she had never seen a more handsome man. "Are you real?" she asked again, meaning louder but tone quieter.

He could not answer, because Ron himself had no idea. Was he real? Did her touch validate him?

One small finger traced his spine. He closed his eyes and pressed his chin atop her head.

_Yes_, he decided. If she acknowledged him, then he existed.

"Because I've seen you before," she wept, placing a distracted kiss on his jaw. Three small kisses, in a row, to comfort him. Just like before. "I've seen you before and you weren't there Ron. You were never there."

"I'm sorry," he murmured as he returned the small, wet nibbles to her own jaw, "I'm sorry."

_Don't_, she wanted to echo him. Don't. He hadn't done anything wrong; nothing within his control, in any case. He had never purposely hurt, never designed anything against her, and here...here, he apologised.

She kissed him again, opening her mouth and letting the intensity of the intimate contact drown her. She was enveloped in Ron's arms and her soul stopped fighting. There was no struggle and there was no turmoil. There was simply Ron.

He pulled his lip away, almost hesitating in his retreat as she kissed the bruise. "Are you real?" he asked her with difficulty. His voice was hoarse, as though he had been screaming for ages at deaf listeners. Now Ron's words were hushed and tired, as if he had given up hope of ever being heard. "Are you real?" he asked again, and shook his head.

_Why Ron, why?_ she wanted to ask.

Ronald Weasley shook his head as if denying himself what he deserved, as if wanting to face the reality behind this euphoric dream. His fingers glided softly over her cheeks, touching her closed eyes with fearful longing. His hands had branded and memorized that skin for years, and yet now he touched her tremulously, both fearing and thirsting for her flesh. "Because I've dreamed you before," he echoed her truthfully, voice breaking without embarrassment. She felt warm rain on her cheeks and wondered if she had made her Ron cry. If an image, a dream, of her had made her Ron cry. Because, although she had no control over what imaginary Hermiones did, she felt guilty for it. "I've dreamed you before and you weren't there," Ron continued against a bit lip.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. It was a sorry for his dreams, and a sorry for hers. It was a sorry for everything that had torn them apart, and a sorry for everything that would continue to tear them apart.

_No, no, no. None of that._

His fingers, capable instruments of delight, danced their way to the back of her neck, the chocolate curls hiding their affectionate tickles. Gaining strength, he slowly pulled her closer for yet another kiss. This was no longer unknown territory. Ron was no longer a timid stranger. And Hermione was no longer in doubt of her first love.

It was a breathless blur of clashing teeth, bruising lips, and roaming hands. It was as if their hearts were ravenous, starved for the warmth for so many eternities. The light within Ron beckoned, called, and begged for Hermione's spirit. And at long last, she was within the power to respond.

Who knew how long they stood in the abandoned hall, locked in an embrace so tender and close that they melted into one, elated being. And who knew how long their hands had rediscovered each inch of flesh. The boy and the girl were ready to waste away eternity wrapped in dazzling silence. And in each other's arms.

There once was a young man named Ronald Weasley. Who possessed a temper to match his hair. Who was flawed and perfect. Who loved Hermione Granger more than reason should have allowed.

There once was a young lady named Hermione Granger. Who possessed a heart to match her mind. Who was young and old. Who loved Ronald Weasley more than her love of reason.

And nothing–not pride, not hurt, not even death–could deny the bond between them.

xoxox

"What the bloody fuck is that?"

It was Ron who broke away first, gently pulling his lips away from hers, dropping a good bye smack on her chin, and dropped his arms. Hermione stood untouched, alone, and frightened when Ron stepped aside and revealed Draco and Harry standing at the door.

The golden deluge dried, leaving a surprised girl in its wake. Hermione was immediately guilty, but not in the path one would assume. Her initial reaction was shock, surprise, yes, but no regret. She had been merely kissing Ron. There was no need to apologise for that.

And then she realised that, as a good wife...former wife...well, whatever her title was, if she deserved it, she would have felt guilty about the entire scenario. And so Hermione Granger stood, guilty for her lack of guilt, as Draco marched purposefully towards them. Where and when had he received a black eye?

She braced herself, attempting to produce a suitable explanation and then ultimately deciding "None of your business!" was not a good defense, and watched with hard eyes as Draco approached her...

And passed her...to Ron.

And passed him...to stand at the Slytherin table.

Hermione blinked. Draco had chosen carpentry over her. Well. She didn't know how to react to that.

Ron did, however. He laughed.

Annoying git. He actually looked at Draco, looked at the Slytherin table, and burst out with laughter. The volume and force of said laughter grew so overwhelming that Ron had to double over, and then collapse onto the bench. Hermione knew she should have been pleased with his light response, but found herself itching to give him a good smack.

"Huh," Harry emitted thoughtfully, sidling up beside her. "I've forgotten that neither of them has seen it."

"What is this monstrous shit?" Draco demanded, pointing indignantly at the ridiculously immense, bronze statue sitting in the middle of the table.

"Like you said," Ron guffawed, "it's a monstrous shit!"

"How is my house supposed to eat with this horrible creation in the way?"

Harry strode to where Draco stood and studied the odd monument. "I've seen one girl place her drink on the roof."

"It's slanted!"

"Well, I never said she was a very bright girl."

There, in the centre of the Slytherin table, complacently sat a detailed replica of the Burrow. Every shingle, every window, every displaced family of gnomes were forever immortalized in the bronze recreation. On the front lawn, the purpose of such a monument was explained, citing that, considering the many educational and heroic contributions sprung from the Weasley clan, it was only natural to resurrect a tribute to them. Then, after Hermione's flowery words, Dumbledore had added a small note of apology for the bizarre location, citing pregnancy to be the explanation of Miss Granger's cruel choice.

While Draco and Harry argued about the appropriateness and beauty of the masterpiece, Hermione quietly turned to observe Ron. It was then that she discovered that he had stepped away. Barely a few inches, a foot at most...but it wounded her. Swiftly and effectively, his deliberate distance hurt her to the core. He did not meet her eyes as she stared up at him in shock, and he remained doggedly focused on the hilarious argument before them.

She would have none of that. Avoiding the crux of the matter was a game for adolescents. She was far too tired to endure such antics.

"Look at me," she ordered quietly. She saw that he was surprised, but could not pinpoint the exact reason. Her bluntness? Her ability to command without that past bossy tone? Or had he not expected any direct acknowledgment from her while Draco was in the room?

He turned, with his head but not his body, to stare down at her. He said nothing, which irritated her to no end. She felt as if he were purposefully pulling himself back from the scene, deliberately attempting to blend with the shadows once more. Hermione decided that she had not endured this excruciating morning simply to have Ron play the neutral observer.

"Do you know what's happened? Do you know what's going on?"

Miss Granger did not mean to make her voice so hard. Where that voice of harsh interrogation came from, she never knew. It sounded almost as if she were speaking to a child who had daydreamed in class, citing him to repeat the recent lesson although she knew he hadn't been attending. They were small, petty questions, designed to satisfy the interrogator's anger instead of the majority's thirst for knowledge. Hermione knew she could not fault Ron with his ignorance, for she wasn't malicious nor stupid. But she could blame him–and god damn, her heart wanted to blame somebody for all this anguish–for not wanting to join the world once more. Her world, to be precise.

"I know," he replied evenly, with no hint of the warmth they had created just moments before, "that things have changed." Ron's blue eyes were neither cruel, nor accusing. He was not angry with her. He was not disappointed with her. At that moment, with just a few inches and two years between them, Ron wasn't with her at all.

Then he looked towards the others; more specifically, Draco. She could not discern whether he meant it as a rude reminder or was simply watching with new attention.

Slowly, Harry accio-ed and then handed Draco both Firebolt and invisibility cloak. The professor's face was impassive as Draco triumphantly received the reluctant gifts.

"Try to owl them back," Harry attempted, obviously struggling to keep the anxiety out of his tone.

"Oh of course," Malfoy laughed. She surmised that Draco did not opt for a disillusionment charm, guessing that, wherever he intended to go, his good looks would weigh heavily in his escape.

Hermione tightened her lips, hands itching to give Draco a good smacking as well. Malfoy saw them as materialistic prizes. To Harry, those were sentimental treasures beyond any price.

Harry had seen Hermione's displeased expression, and generously misinterpreted her reason. As Draco tested the weight of his new means of escape, Harry cleared his throat, looked at his two best friends, and visibly flinched as the unexpected words flew out of his mouth.

"There is no need to leave straight away," Harry bit out, looking heavenward. Draco didn't even pause with his taunting admiration, and swished the cloak about his shoulders with purely Slytherin smugness. Harry's brow furrowed further as he stepped closer. "If you'd like to wait and recover from the ceremony–"

"Thanks but no thanks, Potter," Draco interrupted airily. "Chances are I'd do better on my own than within your presence any way. Everybody around you tends to die, don't they?"

Hermione's foot was set forward even before she realised her intention. Her hand was already clenched, just like Harry's, poised to physically punish Draco for his insensitivity. But, before she could take another step, Harry forced himself to relax and, because he set such a good example, Hermione abandoned her violent agenda for the time being.

"As impossible as this request may be," Harry argued heatedly, "try and be intelligent for once. The Ministry's looking for you. My house is the last place they'd look. I'm all for kicking your sorry arse into the gutters once you're fully healed or you've found a more permanent arrangement, but I won't have you laying blame on me once you swoon half way out the door–"

"I don't swoon," Draco cut in once again. The arrogance was slightly lessened, and he gave Harry a look of pure bafflement. Then Malfoy's eyes flickered to Hermione and the confusion melted away, as if he understood the motivation for this ill phrased invitation.

"That was a very bad imitation of consciousness in the dungeons," Ron said lightly, speaking up for the first time. His words were harmless enough, but his eyes remained blue chips of ice as they regarded the fugitive.

"And we both know why it was such a poor quality imitation, don't we?" Draco returned with equal casualness.

Both Harry and Hermione looked at the two with mounting curiosity, but didn't dare disturb the rising tension. It was moot point any way, for Draco merely narrowed his eyes–something, Hermione knew, he did when he lacked a suitable response–and vanished. There was a brief gust of wind and the faintest echoes of an escape before Hermione realised that, once more, Draco had left her.

_He'll be back_, her mind whispered encouragingly.

"He'll be back," Ron stated confidently, looking out the window as if he could see Draco race away. "Prats never just disappear."

Harry, although still troubled by the departure of his dearest childhood mementos, now smiled brightly and stepped closer to the pair. "You sure? You did, after all."

"Cheap shot, Harry."

"What can I say? I'm frugal." Hermione thought it impossible, but Harry smiled even wider. _Good lord_, she thought faintly. _Like a child in a candy shop_. She had a fear that he would propose crazy shenanigans while the school was empty.

But, instead of the idea of an outrageous, childish scheme, Harry only nodded with an immensely satisfied demeanor. "Right. To the Burrow, I imagine? Lawrence ought to be hungry by now, and the others...well." Here, Harry shrugged, and Hermione found him heartbreakingly happy. For this bliss would not last, and sooner or later, Harry Potter would be forced to find another cause to enjoy. Despite his achievements, that task, Hermione reckoned, could easily be his most difficult.

"Can you apparate, Ron? I know it's been a while, but–"

"Let's take the train," Ron suggested quietly. Hermione blinked, for she was certain he had not only taken a few inches away from her, but a few inches back as well. His feet shuffled away as Harry drew near. The dada professor, far too cheery to notice anything amiss, only nodded eagerly.

"Of course. The express. I feel like walking through Hogsmeade any way. Do you want a beer or anything, Ron? Before we go?"

Hermione frowned at Harry, wondering why that happy tone never faded as Ron walked tiredly towards the open doors. Obviously, there was something wrong. Was Harry, for all his power and all his wisdom, too blind to see how exhausted Ron was?

"No, no, Harry." Weasley's voice was tired but amused. Vaguely, Hermione was reminded of Lupin as she purposefully strode forward and ducked under Ron's arm. It was a possibly romantic gesture, to have his arm wrapped around her, which was why Harry's face practically glowed with joy as he caught up with them. But, more than anything, it was for support. Ron tried not to lean too heavily on her as they trudged slowly to the platform, yet he could not hide his fatigue either. More than once, he paused before a shop window, with the appearance of silently reliving memories. While Harry enthusiastically recalled the juvenile events that had occurred at this shop or that bar, Hermione sank under the weight of his arm, just a little, and said nothing. Ron would not have liked her to point out this weakness.

The white fog folded within itself and then elevated, producing dark clouds from which friendly drops of cold rain drizzled upon the three. By the time they reached the train, their shoes were caked with mud, and both Ron and Harry were forced to rescue Hermione from slipping.

Still, despite the evident weariness, Ron merely stood as the two easily found an empty compartment and settled in. He hovered in the door way as the train shook and jerked into life, and regarded them with a stilted smile as they began to speed towards England.

"Sit down, Ron," Hermione offered anxiously, disliking his silence. She stood, and sat next to Harry, so that one side was completely open. "Lie down, if you're tired."

"No," he politely refused, a sincere grin sitting on his scarred lip. He even shook his head, as if stating, _Silly bint. You're always adorably worried about me. _Ron tilted his head and grinned at them both. "I'm going to walk for a bit, all right? I'll be back in a moment."

No, it was not all right. He had just been resurrected for heaven's sake! Ron may have been in the prime of his life, but that did not mean he was invincible, and surely anybody would be battered and bruised after this morning's ordeal! Hermione opened her mouth to boss–yes _boss_–Ronald Weasley into doing the sensible thing when Harry spoke first.

"Sure. See you in a bit, then?"

"Right."

He slid the door shut quickly, and gave a friendly wave as he stalked out of their view.

Hermione rounded on Harry, mouth open to give the most grating diatribe in the history of–

"What are we going to do about him?" Harry lamented quietly, interlacing his hands and settling them on his stomach. He was slouching in the most appalling way, almost as if he were literally spineless. "He's got demons, obviously. I just didn't think he'd try to hide them from me."

That "me" and not "us" stung Hermione somewhat, but she understood Harry's way of thinking. Ron was back. Best mate was back. Things were discussed with best mate that one did not discuss with best female mate.

"He hasn't had a chance for a private word with you," she assured him, patting his head absently. "Not a long chance, any how."

"Fair play," Harry admitted, and twiddled his thumbs with a doubtful expression. "Still, I don't think he'll tell me what's bothering him. At least, not without coercion. Should I use coercion, Hermione?"

It should have disturbed her that Harry was speaking of force when it came to dealing with his best friend. But, considering the recent developments, Hermione thought she would not have blinked if Harry suggested Chinese water torture. Such drastic measures were needed in order to help a loved one, according to the professor any how. He had odd logic, Harry Potter.

"No, Harry."

Harry was skeptical when she gave her tired answer. "Not even with his best interest at heart?"

"No."

"But, when _you_–"

"If you mention me or somebody concerning me, I will disembowel you."

"Duly noted." Harry sighed and glanced out at the passing scenery with amusing impatience. "Damn train. Too bloody slow!"

Hermione searched Harry's robes for the pocket watch, while her friend sat still with nary a word of innuendo. "It's lunch time at the Burrow. Do you think that–"

"Blimey I'm hungry," Harry complained. "Where the hell is the tea cart?" He began to strain out the compartment door like a fidgeting boy, and Hermione regarded him quietly. Walking–well, slouching contradiction. Grown up clothes, grown up hair, and yet a little boy's thinking. As irritating as this behaviour was, she decided not to pester him about it for the moment. Harry had had such a pitiful childhood. So what if he decided to indulge in immature behaviour? That's what boys did, from ages one to thirty. Or that's what her mother used to say, any way.

The tea cart and pusher of the tea cart sat five compartments down, unbeknownst to Ronald Weasley.

He had walked briskly away from the pair as soon as humanly possible, hating how different this pain was. Before, he had simply been cloaked in it, utterly drenched with angst. Now...now it was in isolated areas. His shoulders. His leg. His eye. Somehow, having this discomfort in little clumps was more unbearable, because he had other areas for comparison. His left eye was not thrumming with a low, nauseating beat, so, _obviously_, he'd have to find something for that right one. Shit. Being alive was just...

"Fucked," he said aloud, stepping into a random compartment and shutting the door quickly. He leaned forward against the glass, wondering if there was a medical car on this contraption. "Bugger," he swore again, more vehemently as he thought of his situation. "Damned shitty shit shit–"

"Ahem," a female, old-ish voice coughed delicately, and Ron's eyes flew open in shock. _Crap! _He hadn't been brought back! He'd been pushed forward! He was in hell, which was assuredly the only place Umbridge would go–

"Would you like a chocolate frog?"

Ron turned swiftly and found a non-evil, non-sadistic woman sitting in one of the seats, guarding a tea cart. In her hand, she held out a candy, and on her face, she wore a gentle if not surprised smile. Nope. Definitely not hell.

Moving by instinct, his hand was already out, reaching for the offered sweet when Ron suddenly pulled back as if burned. "I'm sorry," he said thickly, wondering whether to laugh or cry at his familiarly mortifying situation. "But I haven't any money."

The nondescript witch arranged her lips in a sympathetic pout, and shook her head. "You look as if you've had a rough morning. Here, take it. I'll say it ran away."

Charity, that's what it was. Something Ron had hated as soon as he learned the meaning of the word.

He reached for it.

Considering his current condition, chances were he would be forced to accept charity and pity in the near future any way.

"What did you get, dear?"

As Ron absently stuffed the entire frog into his mouth, he held up the card.

"Oh, it's George!"

He swallowed, and nearly choked half way through the endeavor. He didn't quite remember them being that wriggly...

"No, ma'am," he contradicted politely. "It's Fred. George stepped out for a moment."

"You can tell, can you? Without looking at the name?"

Ron merely nodded. He was a little bit insulted, really, that this witch did not remember him. Then again, Harry had muttered something about two years...

"Are you a fan of that twin too?"

Ron rolled his eyes. It was rude, yes, and she had given him a free chocolate frog...but really. What sensible woman would ever considering being a fan of any of his brothers? Well, maybe Charlie, on account of that whole dragon thing–

"Yeah. Though I don't know if he's a fan of mine," Ron added as a bitter afterthought. "Doesn't want me back, you know. I'd call him a bastard, but that'd be an insult to me as well." The only thing that comforted him now was the fact that the twins had to share a card, and there was not an individual Fred nor George collectible to be had. Ron sincerely hoped that the candy company's assumption had annoyed the hell out of his elder brother.

The witch paused, blinking several times and observed him with a straighter posture. "Are you...are you a cousin?"

Ron smiled tightly, hands fumbling behind him as he slowly slid open the door. "You could say that," he said quietly, handing her the card as he left.

"But you'd be lying," he finished as he walked away from that compartment. Ron shook his head. That was just his luck, wasn't it? To find the only occupied compartment in a train full of unoccupied compartments. Life was always doing that to him.

He sauntered to the loo. He had no urgent need of it, but did not want to see Hermione and Harry just yet. Because, well...if he saw them, then it was very possible that they would see him as well. See him for what he truly was.

The reflection awaiting him in the mirror was a sorry one. He unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up as he criticised his appearance. Blood and bruises, with a sharp nose jutting out of the mess. A few freckles here and there for a change of scenery too. Ron sighed as he wet his hands to wipe away the disgusting memoirs. Again, he was vaguely annoyed with his friends. Why hadn't they told him he looked like a walking nightmare? It was just like the time Fred and George let him walk around a huge family reunion with spinach in between his teeth...

Ron stared at his damp, pale face. His hair was darker where the water had caught it. There was a faint shade of stubble on his jaw, one that Ron could not remember from that morning. Merlin. Was time so eager to push him into the present? Forcing him to age as soon as he returned from–

He closed his eyes. He was so tired, but to rest...it almost seemed like an undeserved privilege. Looks like he was doomed then, to a life time of sleepless nights...

"No, damn it." Ron frowned fiercely, jaw set. "No."

He was going to fight this. He was going to study, and learn, and train and die all over again if he had to... But he was going to cure himself. He wanted to out-Hermione Hermione, to make everything all right again. Before they found out, at least. And pitied him for a whole new slew of reasons.

"Christ! I can't believe it!" Harry complained loudly, just outside the door. Ron watched with amusement as the handle jiggled. "We've got to be the only ones on the bloody train, and somebody's in the loo?"

"Shut up Harry," he heard Hermione scold lightly. "I'm done with the girl's loo, so go ahead."

"No!"

"Harry! There's enviable cleanliness in there, remember?"

"I don't give a damn! It's the principle of the matter. Besides, maybe I _like _wading through muck, so it feels like I've earned the right to a urinal–"

"You're mad," Ron laughed, quickly opening the door. "You know that? Utterly mad."

"Yes," Harry agreed tartly, pulling his friend out the door way to rush in. "If you're referring to the American meaning." With a slam worthy of a diva, he slammed it shut and told them in a muffled voice to go away, as he didn't like the thought of them listening.

Ron chuckled as they slowly walked back to the compartment. "He's been to America?" he asked after a moment's confusion.

"Er...yes."

"When?"

Hermione frowned slightly as they sat across from one another. "I don't know."

Ron smiled with amusement as, under Hermione's bidding, he laid down. "Good to know I'm not the only I'm not the only one who says that."

"Says what?"

"That phrase." He shrugged, staring up at the ceiling. "I reckon I ought to get used to it."

Hermione sat on the edge of seat, wish he could elaborate but afraid to say anything too blunt. Her shoulders sagged a bit when she heard his last words. "You don't, you know," she murmured as she leaned back. "You don't get used to it."

Ron had pillowed his head with his interlocked hands, and turned slightly to her with a question in his eyes.

"At least," Hermione clarified haltingly, "I didn't. I didn't like not knowing, and I hated admitting that I couldn't remember..."

There. She had said it. She had made a reference to her ordeal.

Ron was beginning to rise. "What do you mean–"

They both jumped as the door rattled open once more, and Harry stepped through, hands over his nose. "I like that new soap they've got–" He paused, observing both Ron's impatience and Hermione's glare. The soap scented hands were dropped as he frowned apologetically. "Crap. I interrupted sexual chemistry, didn't I?"

"Is there a filter in there, Harry?" Ron asked, annoyed, and gestured to his head. "Just wondering."

"Ron," Hermione hissed, "don't ask him questions and encourage him to speak!"

"I am feeling very unloved at the moment," Harry declared, plopping down beside Hermione.

Ron observed his best mate and then his fiancée–ex fiancée–as they wondered where the tea cart lady was.

All in all, he thought as he closed his eyes and feigned sleep, it was very anticlimactic. Perhaps, if both Hermione and Harry had been there, then there would have been fireworks and long exclamations of undying love...the Weasley wrinkled his nose. No, he wouldn't have liked that.

"Look, he's dreaming," Hermione said happily.

"He looks like he's smelled a dung bomb," Harry wryly added.

"Maybe it's you. You are wearing the new socks I've knitted for you, aren't you?"

"Socks? Those are Larry's rejected hats, and don't think you can fool me for a second."

_No_, Ron decided after sighing audibly, _it was best done separately. _Kissing Hermione with such thoroughness was not possible with Harry present.

"Hey Harry?"

Hermione let out a small gasp of surprise but Harry, apparently used to the unexpected, only answered, "What?"

"Can we go somewhere else? I'd like to change first."

It was a lie, but a damn good one. One did not welcome the family in such worn and stained clothes. Ron personally believed that such a shabby appearance disrespected his mother, and all her efforts to make her sons look like normal, civilised people.

"Course. Where to?

"Number Twelve, of course." It would have been easier, he supposed, to stop by The Leaky Cauldron and buy robes at a nearby shop...but Ron found he did not like the unfamiliarity of the place.

Harry jokingly protested. "Number Twelve? But, Ron, it's such a grim old place."

"Harry," Hermione put in mildly, "you'll learn, has recently developed a love for puns."

"I'll learn to tolerate it. And can we walk?"

Ron cracked open one eyelid to confirm his suspicions. Just as expected. Hermione was regarding him with disapproval, and was ready to open her mouth when Harry spoke.

"No. My feet are killing me. We'll take the Knight Bus."

"I don't want to take the Knight Bus," Ron argued, now opening both eyes to glare at his so called best friend. Never would he have imagined Harry taking up Hermione's side. That was just...wrong. Traitorous. Unnatural.

"Fine," Harry replied, equally petulant and with crossed arms. "We'll take a taxi. I don't care. I'm not walking all the way there!"

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

"In fear of perpetuating such intelligent conversation," Hermione interrupted with concern, "please behave yourselves. The trolley lady is coming."

There was no need to stop any immature conversation for, as soon as the kind provider of free sweets arrived and saw the red haired stranger in comparison to the famous Hermione Granger and Harry Potter, she had promptly fainted into the latter's lap.

xoxox

As soon as they had climbed out of the cab, Ron bid them good bye.

It had terrified Hermione. So much so that she had lost all capability for words. She simply stood there as he walked away, throwing them reassuring looks over his shoulders.

Ron hated that. He hated how her mouth opened and closed shakily, and how nothing but worry rested in her beautiful eyes. He hated how he caused that.

But when he saw–well, technically, did not see–Number Twelve, he could not bear the thought of entering. Things were supposed to be of a certain way in there. People were supposed to be certain things, when in there. He was not. He was wrong.

"I'm going for a walk," he decided carelessly as Harry held the door open for Hermione. Even Harry, that lover of isolation, was dumbfounded by his words. Hermione scrambled out of her seat and pushed Harry away to pay the driver, all the while staring at Ron.

"I'm sorry...what?"

"I'll be back."

"Ron–" Harry began, shooing the driver away. The man refused, and Potter was forced to turn once more and scream, "It's a tip! Go the hell away!" before joining Hermione in her surprise.

"I just...I just need to walk," Ron explained helplessly. Inwardly, he struggled to find the right words to convey this urgency to just get away, to escape and blend in, to be nobody and have nobody expect anything of him. But he couldn't. Not to these people who belonged.

"I'll be back, I promise," he said again with excessive smiles. This seemed to only worry them more, and Ron tried again. "At least by supper. You know me."

They ignored his joke and his light shrug.

"Ron, it's raining," Hermione pointed out softly.

"Yes, thank you," Ron replied with a roll of his eyes. In almost the exact same instant, he winced as well. _There, see? _he thought to himself. He needed to get away. Without warning, Ron turned and quickly strode away, shoulders hunched as if that would ward off the steady rain. He was tense, wondering what the hell he could do if one of them decided to follow. Nothing, and that incapability infuriated him even more. They knew that they could push his buttons, because they knew that he would do nothing against them.

At least, he hoped they knew. He hoped they knew that, despite everything, he would never hurt them.

Around him, everybody seemed to be in a hurry. Racing to and fro, as if time had set a fire under their bums. Ron scoffed as he crossed a busy street, unmindful of the angry drivers or the scurrying pedestrians. Silly. To think they could restrain and categorize by mere numbers. Utter madness.

_But what else could they do?_ Ron reflected as he approached and then passed what seemed to be a walking mop. The owner of the dog–loosely identified–did not seem pleased with Ron's blunt gawking. Of course, the flow of time was fickle yet permanent, unyielding yet malleable. For such an endless being, people had no means of control. So they pretended that watches, clocks, and so forth actually made a difference, actually measured time. Few ever knew the truth.

How galling that Draco Malfoy was one of those few.

Ron shook his head, happy that the blood on his cuffs was blending with the rain to produce a cheerful, inappropriate pink. It reminded him of Percy. Idly, he ran his hands through his hair to push the irritating slick locks back, and thought them a trifle longer than he expected.

_Shit. Just how fucked am I?_ Ron wondered as he settled on an empty park bench. Everything was being pushed forward. His hair was growing. His body was aching. His stubble was itchy. Time was forcing him to age in every part except his mind. All Ron knew of life was what seventeen year old Ron knew of life. That was all.

And even if he lived to a thousand years, Ron reckoned his body would never catch up to the age of his soul. It did something to a man, when he hears his loved ones' cries. It did something to him, to fear the fears that they did not even know they possessed. Ron's bones were so weary with the hidden knowledge that he thought the rain should have sunk him down. Into the ground, the earth, where he belonged.

Yet there was that human failing. That dislike of death. Logically, Ron had been half way there. Surely he wasn't all too terrified of completing the journey? Ron snorted, and rested his chin in his propped up hands. Yes. He was. He hated the unknown, which was one of the many reasons loving Hermione Granger was so handy. She had that lovely habit of making the unknown known. Despite this ability to fascinate him time and time again, Ronald Weasley's mind tended to wander when she spoke to him. For when her mouth moved, talking about books, or spells, or Latin translations, Ron found himself mesmerized by the movement of her lips. By the sparkling animation of her eyes. By the pretty blushes on her cheeks. Then, with no warning, that animation would stop, and stare expectantly at him, and Ron would find himself frozen with fear, hoping that she would not be too offended to find him inattentive. In hindsight, Ron wished he had listened to every word, every silly, inane fact, and every beautiful Latin translation. For he had never thought that the opportunity to hear them would ever disappear.

"Don't be cliché, Ron," the young man sighed to himself as he watched, in the distance and beyond the trees, real people race to escape the dreariness. "So it's raining. And so it's freezing. And so your life is beyond repair. That is no reason to start pitying yourself."

He thought that sound advice from a reasonably sound mind, and promptly focused on more enjoyable subjects.

Draco Malfoy. More specifically, Draco Malfoy's black eye.

Ron let out a chuckle before he could help it. Then he glared at that lone squirrel who dared to stare at him with such worry.

Draco Malfoy's black eye widening at the sight of The Bronze Burrow.

Ron laughed even louder, leaning back against the bench, wiping away tears.

"Are you drunk?"

Ron bolted upright and found himself at the business end of a very solid looking cane. The owner of the weapon was an elderly man, finely dressed and soaking wet.

_Look at that_, Ron thought fatalistically as he blinked away rain drops from his eyelashes. _Nearing the end of his life and still telling others how to live theirs._

_That was a cruel thought,_ he scolded himself. Actually, that mental upbraiding had a tinge of Hermione in it, but Ron decided to analyse that later.

"No sir," he replied politely. Then, because he thought no busybody deserved that much friendliness, Ron smiled wider and asked, "Why? Are you offering an opportunity?"

Ron dodged and respectfully refrained from laughing as the cane-wielding maniac augustly shuffled away.

That was what Draco should have done.

Dodged.

xoxox

"Don't you _dare _leave me here!"

Oh it had been tempting. Bastard deserved it, didn't he? To have caused so much heart ache? To have ripped apart so many?

But then Ron thought better of it. It wouldn't do, it just wouldn't do. He would regret it in the future.

That thought cheered him. He had a future again. Even if Draco Malfoy was present in it, Ronald Weasley had a future.

So it wasn't so much concern for Malfoy's well-being that made Ron quell the evil urge. It was concern for his own. He did not want to carry around the burden of a tainted conscience in this new future of his.

Ron sighed, and willed Draco to lie down. There was a satisfying thud and a burning expletive. Ron smiled, though guessed that the obscurity of this world concealed his expression. It didn't matter. Malfoy hated looking at him any way.

So Ron Weasley, with a simplicity only he was capable of, shrugged, walked over the bodies to where Draco lay, fighting against invisible bindings. Then, despite Malfoy's creative threats, Ron bent slightly, grabbed his pale hand and pulled him up. Just as he had in the spring of their sixth year.

Malfoy had jumped up–bouncing, really, at the risk of being repetitive–to his feet as the walls morphed into the dungeon walls, and the shimmers solidified and sucked in color from an unknown source. The stones were newer, and the light had lost the metallic sheen to acquire the silent whiteness from the fog outside. They were both present once more.

But, suddenly, the shadows pulsed around them both, engulfing them in indecisive time. The walls seemed to crumble with each passing second, reverting to the damaged state of years before. For one second, there had been potential. And in the very next instant, that gloomy condemnation taunted Ron with its presence once more.

Once, on this day two years prior, darkness had stolen Ron's life.

And on this day, darkness had given it back, only to waver back and forth like a fickle temptress.

Bleakly, Ron assumed that the cavernous nonexistence would succeed. So long had the nothingness ruled his life that he did not allow himself to dream of anything otherwise. This brief flash of light, this tantalizing tease of the present...would be gone in an instant. The time now was best used wisely.

First things first.

"I knew you didn't have it in you," Draco told him smugly.

The robe pooled to the ground at his feet. Then Ron unbuttoned his left cuff and began rolling up his sleeve with deliberate slowness. His eyes remained fixed on the mundane task, but his entire body was aware of Malfoy's actions

The boy had stopped bouncing, and was now staring at Ron with abject confusion.

"What...are you _doing_?"

Ron did not answer, for he thought even thickheads like Malfoy would have seen the answer without explanation. With equal nonchalance, he finished rolling the sleeve up to his elbow and earnestly began work on the other arm. Once that was done, Weasley thought himself as prepared as can be when it came to fisticuffs, but then noticed his ragged tie.

No...Malfoy wasn't so devious as to try to choke another bloke in a fist fight, was he? Ron sent a narrowed, doubtful gaze to the bewildered young man. He began loosening the knot, just in case.

As if whipped, the black veil shrouding them both leapt back into the corners suddenly, cowering as Ron's impatience grew tenfold. The two winced as the unexpected shafts of light impaled them both.

"If you are stripping, I'm killing you. If you are planning to fight me, I'm killing you."

There had been an enjoyable tremor of fear in his voice.

Ron smiled pleasantly as he continued his task. "You threaten to kill me like it's such a permanent condition in my case," he noticed, amused. Draco responded with an all-too-clever narrowing of the eyes.

Soon, robe and tie sat in a neat pile against the wall. Ron pushed back his hair as he stared at Malfoy.

"Well?" Draco demanded.

"Well," Ron returned, with a great deal more tranquility.

"Are we going to do this the barbaric way?" Malfoy attempted with a defiant lift of his chin. "Is it possible for you to rise above animal behaviour for once in your life, Weasley?"

Ron rolled his eyes as he stepped closer.

Summoning slithering strength, the fluid smoke bled from the crevices of the walls, seeping from the cracks of the floor, slowly coating the world in stale mated isolation once more. Ron's breath quickened, hoping that fate would allow him this small favour before eternal imprisonment.

"This is the way I see it," he began easily, inwardly wondering why he was even explaining himself to the scum. "We have no wands. You have been lacking proper punishment. Somebody ought to beat the hell out of you. I am a somebody. Here we are then."

Somewhere between the "are" and the "then," Draco Malfoy had apparently given consent to the scheme and attempted a sorely miscalculated swing of his fist.

The force was okay enough, Ron thought objectively as he leaned back just swiftly enough to avoid a major blow. The knuckles had roughly brushed against his jaw, but otherwise, no damage done.

"Here now," he protested, "you can't hit a bloke when he's conversing with–"

Ron had underestimated Draco's blatant defiance of the rules. Twice in the space of one minute, as a matter of fact.

As if sensing that another strike would guarantee certain death, Draco stepped back with arrogant caution as Ron slowly pivoted his head forward once more, tasting blood. It wasn't that Malfoy had given such a crushing blow to his mouth. The scar had been reopened. That was all.

It was better to believe that, for the safety of his ego.

Mentally, Ron was surprised that Draco even knew to keep his thumb outside the fist. Since when did Malfoy's do anything physical?

Ronald Weasley was angry now. He had been extremely annoyed before, and for good reason. Harry, Dad, Bill, Charlie, Fred, George...hell even Percy. They had all had some opportunity to give Draco Malfoy a sound thrashing. And what happens to the little snot? A cosy stay in a few prisons. That was all. Nobody raised a hand against Draco except Hermione, and, considering what sick, twisted individual he was, Malfoy probably enjoyed it.

Once, the boys had given their youngest brothers a lesson in the wonderful art of brawling. Even Percy participated, though he had merely stood by and given the rules of honour while Bill and Charlie taught Fred, George, and Ron how to properly make a fist, where to hold it in relation to the chin, and in what way to move one's body so that the full weight was used to drive the strike, instead of the mere arm muscle.

Draco Malfoy didn't have older brothers to do that for him. It was almost a pity.

Ron had held back, slightly, when he landed a punch on Draco's jaw. He didn't want to break any thing, after all.

"You little shit!" Draco seethed, apparently winding himself up to distribute another poorly executed strike.

Hope chiseled at the brittle blackness, allowing small rays of whiteness to creep within their airless shell. Ron smiled appreciatively, thanking the good side for their best intentions, but never truly believe that his friends would succeed. If it wasn't meant to be, then Ron refused to be an optimistic fool and wait for the rescue.

It was easy to step out of the way. For some reason Ron neither knew nor particularly cared for, Draco Malfoy hated him. So much so that it was difficult for the boy to think clearly. Rage blinded his logic as he fought. Draco attempted another punch to his nose and failed, settling for a harsh jab into Ron's stomach. Ron retaliated by planting his fist with all his might into Draco's eye, and strove to land another into Malfoy's smart mouth when he nearly fell, hand flailing in the thin air.

Draco Malfoy was unconscious.

"Shit," Ron swore in annoyance, replaying the brief conflict in his mind. There was no way he had hit Malfoy hard enough to render him unconscious, right?

Then he noticed the angle of which he hit the ground, and saw that the force of that last contact had sent the idiot against the wall. Malfoy tended to have bad luck with walls.

"Hey," he said loudly, peering at the lifeless figure at his feet. "Hey, wake up you."

No, damn it, no! There had to be more than that! He wanted day long fight. Hell, even a day wasn't nearly enough for Ron to work out his frustrations. Ron nudged Draco's ribs with his shoe. Nope. Out for a while, it looked like.

"Shit, shit, shit," Ron sighed forlornly. The tar coloured atmosphere simmered, finally reaching boiling point, and exploding on them with an eerie lack of feeling. But Ron had learned to deal with numbness, and was very much prepared to sink into indifference once more.

So when Ron blinked, resigning himself to accept this without any further obscenities, he found himself with an entirely different view once he opened his eyes. As if somebody had poured water upon a sinned terrain, colours and lights slowly trickled to their rightful places. Ron could hear–truly hear–the living, breathing world, and not merely the half thoughts of unknown loved ones. As the colours and shades of life grew more intense, trumpeting to his famished eyes, Ron's head pounded with an unknown phrase. The mysterious words pummeled him to his knees, forcing him to claw at the ground for aid that would not come. His face contorted with indescribable anguish, as the words carved its potent magic on his mind.

_Neutiquam erro._

_Neutiquam erro._

xoxox

"But I am," Ron argued quietly, staring at his hands. They were rough, scarred, and, if Ron was to be entirely truthful, clumsy.

"I am lost," he said, tasting the cold rain as it slid down his jaw and into his mouth. He stared as one drop rested at the very tip of his nose, and then stopped as the action made his crossed eyes slightly achy. Mum used to tell him that, if he kept his eyes like that, they would freeze that way. Percy later told him that it was physically impossible. Fred, in an effort to save his mother's honour, resorted to sorcery to actually freeze little Ron's eyes.

Yet another reason to hate Fred Weasley.

Ron rolled his eyes at himself.

Right. Like he could ever hate his family member. Just like Malfoy had said; he didn't have it in him. It was mind boggling, really, to have enough darkness within one's heart to hate somebody of blood relation. Granted, none of Ron's blood relations had ever done anything particularly nasty to him. The twins included.

He wasn't really sure if he wanted to "have it in him." A small part of him regretted withholding the punishment Draco truly deserved. But what would have to be endured, Ron wondered, to possess such studied viciousness? Years of unhappiness? Ages of torture? Or an eternity of emotional sterility from day one?

Because, really, if that was what it took to cheerfully hurt loved ones, and mercilessly slay innocents...Ron preferred accusations of lacking.

Ronald Weasley, however, did not lack enough. For there was enough darkness, enough contamination, and enough wounds in his soul to hate somebody. To wish somebody else dead. Not only dead, as a matter of fact, but broken. Tortured to the point where death seemed like a blessed gift.

Of course, he had wanted Hermione to live. That was the point of fighting. That was why any of them fought, according to Ron's reasoning. You bled a bit so that little Ginny wouldn't have to. You broke that bone so that Harry wouldn't become distracted with pain. And you died, so that Hermione could have a real chance of living.

And, of course, he knew there'd be some bloke out there to love her, protect her. She was just too good a girl to end up alone. So why should he hate the one man who had made her smile–genuinely, beautifully smile–for the first time in months?

Because Draco Malfoy had also made Hermione Granger cry. Malfoy had scarred his Hermione's heart for the effort of his own happiness. Sacrificed bits of Hermione's smiles so that life would be more enjoyable for himself.

If he had done it selflessly, then fine. If Draco was capable of loving Hermione without putting his own, selfish priorities before her, then so be it. If Malfoy had loved Hermione and Hermione had completely forgotten Ronald Weasley as their love blossomed, then Ron would have accepted it. If Malfoy had loved Hermione truly. Selflessly. Unconditionally.

But Draco Malfoy loved Hermione partially. Selfishly. Horribly.

So it was not a matter of "Hermione loves the wrong person," as Harry and the rest of the world undoubtedly viewed it. There was never a "wrong" person to love, by Ron's standards. For "wrong" implied "right," as if there were such things as rules and laws to govern people's emotions and affinities. Sort of like those codes the Malfoys loved so much, of detesting anything muggle-related. Those rules never wormed its way into Ron's mind, so why should they now? Simply because the citing of such love laws would work in his favour?

_No, no_, he fatalistically decided with a small shake of his head. It was not a matter of "Hermione loves the wrong person." It was a matter of "Hermione has been loved wrongly."

And Ron could not abide by that. He had not left Hermione to have her loved so poorly. She did not deserve the injustice.

His stomach rumbled slightly, and Ron silently ignored what used to be the second-most urgent bodily need. He sat for a while, trying to avoid self-pity, horrid memories, and depressing present-day situations as the rain gradually lessened to ineffectual mist once more. An unwashed, slightly limping middle aged lady–who, truthfully, looked like a muggle's stereotypical witch–unsteadily wobbled past him, giving him a firm, "God has a plan for us," before chasing off after a shadow.

Ron waited until she was clearly out of view before frowning in thought.

_Okay,_ he thought, _let's say that's true. If the absent almighty did sit down one divine night, writing out celestial agendas for every single soul in the universe, then he must have become terribly knackered when I was born. He had probably had finished half a bottle of godly gin when he got to me. He probably thought, Eh, I'm too tired to detail ages seventeen through nineteen. I'll just place him off the universal map for those years._

Ron straightened. Either Malfoy had struck him harder than he thought, or he was hedging towards philosophy there.

The young man shook himself like a shocked dog, and stood. Only two things could knock him off his deep-thinking horse at the moment. Family teasing. Or alcohol.

And at least alcohol didn't talk back.

He didn't want to find Number Twelve, and then found himself knocking on the door. When nobody answered, Ron shrugged and tested the knob.

Huh. Unlocked.

Maybe his luck was turning around then.

Then he winced as he carefully tread into the foyer. Usually, after thoughts like that, a bloke stubbed a toe or lost his girlfriend or fell through a hole of humanity.

He could hear shouting upstairs. Not loud discussions–but outright, furious screams. That baby cry wasn't helping matters either.

He recognised only three of the four participants.

Hermione, Harry, and Ginny. No matter how childish he sometimes believed her to be, Ron didn't think his little sister would be wailing on and on like that.

Now that he knew there was no fear of being overheard, Ron quickly raced up the stairs and ducked into the room next to all the excitement. After summoning the courage to wipe away a few abandoned cobwebs–at least he hoped they were abandoned–Ron pressed himself against the wall.

He didn't know why he wasn't racing to smother his little sister with an embarrassing hug. To yell at her for yelling at his friends. Or, once he learned the gist of the matter, yell at his friends for ganging up on his innocent little sister. And with an unknown baby in the room, no less.

"One bloody dinner, just one!" Ginny shouted. Her tone was hoarse, as if it had been going on for some time now. "That's all I ask! As if an hour would really spoil your special day together!"

"Ginny," Harry roared back, making Ron tense for a moment. He made a note to speak to that hero, and instruct him the proper etiquette when dealing with Weasley sisters. "Ginny, don't be an imbecile!"

_Right. Skip the instructions, and go on straight to pummeling. _

"Simply because we do not conform to your conventions of mourning does not mean that we are disrespecting the memory of Ron!"

_The memory of Ron?_

Ron bit his lip, suddenly remembering and hating his stupid, hopeful mind for even forgetting.

_Of course. The memory of Ron_.

"We," Ginny began, tears clogging her words, "are simply trying to celebrate his life. Believe it or not, you two were major parts of his life. We couldn't do this last year, you know. Not with _you _gone for your own selfish agenda. Now, the pair of you are finally present, and what do you say? What do you say? Sorry, we have other plans! It looks to me as if you're playing professor again, you stupid bastard!"

"He's not playing professor," Hermione corrected heatedly, "he _is _one. And until you know exactly what we've done today, you've no right to judge us so critically. Of course we want to be with him. Of course we do. That's why we couldn't come."

"Then tell me!"

That infant cried once more, filling what had to be the most suffocating silence Ron had ever heard in his entire life.

_Well, excluding that two year one, at least._

"I can't," Harry finally said, regret thick in his throat. "I'm sorry, Ginny..."

"But you can't," Ginny finished acidly. "Fine. I'll just go home, and tell mum that we'll be seven years short of memories then. Ron's best friends can't make it. Even _Seamus _had enough thought to send an owl with condolences, and you know he's with the Thomas's today! And you two, his best friends–practically _family_–"

She broke off, the words disappearing in angry, mournful sob. It was not easy, for Ginny to cry in front of others. Even as children, whenever he had blundered and caused his little sister's tears, the youngest Weasley would turn away, and make sure that nobody could see.

He could just imagine her now. Turning away slightly, quickly wiping at her freckled cheeks. She wasn't one to go without leaving a few choice words. Always fearless, his little Ginny.

But he knew her fears. He knew, without having any right to do so. She had not willingly opened her soul, and nor had she confided in him. That was why Ron stood, concealed by the ancient walls and helpful shadows. He did not want to face her, and think of things that lurked in her mind without permission.

"Ginny," Hermione attempted, miraculously quieting the baby's interruptions, "if you only knew..."

"I don't want any more 'ifs,' unless you're planning to tell me," Ginny cut in harshly. "Do me a favour, yeah? Next time you want somebody to look after Lawrence, choose somebody you haven't screwed over."

_That's right_, Ron thought indignantly, getting caught up with his sister's righteousness. It was only when he heard her swift, furious footsteps sweep past the slightly ajar door did he realise that, no, Ginny was not right. Harry and Hermione had a very good reason to "screw over" his little sister. And he was the reason.

He did not like to see her so misinformed, and quickly ran to the door and out into the hall way, only to find musty stillness in her wake. Somebody heard him and called out his name as he sped past to the top of the stair case. Ron ignored it. He had to speak with Ginny, he had to tell her in a gentle, non-embarrassing way that there was no need to cry, no need at all–

The door slammed shut so strongly that the light fixtures shook. Ron stood, frozen by his own confusion, as he imagined Ginny standing in the rain, making the droplets disappear with the heat of her anger. He imagined her taking a few steps, by habit, before disapparating to the Burrow. He imagined her just as he left her. Sixteen years old. A tad opinionated. In need of elder brother protection.

"Ron," Harry said, slowly approaching from behind. "When did you come back?"

"A few minutes ago," he answered absently, still wondering at his own actions. Why hadn't he called out? Chased after her? Followed her home?

Deep down, he knew the answer. Because he couldn't. Emotionally and physically, he knew that he was not capable of seeing his family again.

"You're soaked!" Hermione exclaimed. Ron felt one soft and warm hand firmly clasp his shoulder, and was forced to turn and meet her eyes.

"Funny side effect of walking in the rain," he joked.

It was a stupid joke, but what else could he do? Offer congratulations as she stood there with another man's child in her arms? The best way to deal with a horrid situation, his twin brothers had taught him, was to make light of it. That way, if you're hurt, people have no way of knowing, and no way of pitying you. If you laugh when you want to cry, then nobody sees the first hints of tears.

And, although his mind tried its best to avoid the subject, Ron found that his eyes could not. His gaze immediately dropped from Hermione's worried expression to the tranquil being she cradled in her arms. It was sleeping. Smiling, if one could do that at such a young age. Totally unaware how its existence wounded Ron's soul.

Suddenly, Ron was angry. _Damn it, god fucking damn it, _he thought as he continued to stare. He could not hate it! He could not hate the baby, although he wished he could. That infant was the offspring of a heartless, sinful, careless creature. A capricious, hard hearted fool who thought his wisdom overruled everybody else's. That baby, that child whom Hermione loved so whole heartedly, carried the blood of ice in his veins. And Ron could not hate it. He had helped bring it into this world, after all. It would be insensible to hate it.

Distantly, he heard Harry make ridiculous introductions. Lawrence Egan Granger.

Red hair. He even had red hair. It was as if fate was taunting him with what could have been. What should have been.

He was a healthy baby. He was moving and twisting his mouth as he slumbered. He was pale and vulnerable, with a tiny nose, frowning mouth, and pudgy, rosy cheeks to match those absurd tufts of hair that covered his large head. He wore the smallest Gryffindor-themed pyjamas Ron had ever seen. He was perfect. And he was Hermione and Draco's perfection.

Then he realised that Hermione and Harry had been waiting anxiously for a response for some time now.

_Laugh, Ron,_ his mind advised. _They'll expect a smile_.

So, like an obedient puppet, Ron latched onto the words of survival, and gave a small, harmless smile as he stepped closer. "Can't say I like the name 'Lawrence,'' Ron joked. "Nor the name Larry," he added, giving Harry a side glance. Instead of appearing comforted by his lightness, his best mate seemed bewildered. Hastily stepping away from the pair, Ron retreated farther down into the hall way.

"But at least it's not Draco," Ron reasoned as Hermione regarded him with nervous eagerness. It was important to her, he realised, for him to like the baby. "Or, you know, something close to that. Snako."

Harry gave a snort of laughter and stepped closer. Imperceptibly, Ron let out a sigh of relief.

"Let's get you out of those clothes," said Harry, putting an arm around Ron's shoulders and steering him to a different room.

"Has that forceful approach ever worked for you?" Ron asked skeptically.

Harry rolled his eyes and sent a glance back at Hermione. "Fix up some tea, please Hermione?"

"What? Me and my extra arms?"

Harry sighed as he all but shoved Ron through his door. "Fine. Hey, Larry? Fix up some tea since your mother claims utter paralysis?"

Ron did not hear whether the infant complied or not. In fact, the only sounds to respond to Harry's request was an exasperated sigh and retreating footsteps.

Heedless of proper behaviour, Ron wearily made his way to the unmade bed and sat upon the dry material. Harry locked the door and then turned, only to frown at the damp sheets.

"Thanks so much for that."

"Magic, Harry," Ron retorted, pushing wet locks from his forehead.

"Politeness, Ron."

Ron laughed as he bent down to unlace his shoes, and pushed them off with his toes. "Yes. Lacking one or the other."

"What?"

"Clothes, Harry. I'd like clothes."

Harry gave a dissatisfied frown as he moved to the closet.

Ron let out a groan as he settled against the pillows. "My back hurts."

"Would you like a massage as well?" Harry asked tartly as he rummaged through the piles of clothes on the closet floor. The shirts and trousers had started out on the hangers, but somehow, his entire wardrobe ended up hating proper storage fixtures.

"If this isn't the start of gay porno, I don't know what is," Ron replied, rubbing his temples as if a thundering headache plagued him.

"Lots of experience with those, haven't you?" Harry rejoined, finally finding a pair of reasonably clean black trousers. In want of pressing, but good enough for Ron. He tossed them over his shoulder as he began a quest for a decent shirt or jumper.

"Lawrence Egan Granger," Ron slowly mused aloud.

Harry's hands slowed as he waited for more.

"I lied. It's a decent name."

"Yes."

Harry sat at the doorway of his closet, staring the pile of uncoordinated mess. He didn't dare turn to his friend, for he wanted to give Ron a chance. To hide his true emotions, to mask his hurt and anger. For if Harry spied anything suspicious, anything that appeared to be a threat to Larry...he did not want to hurt an already injured man. There were rules about that, after all.

"Shit, Harry," Ron said in a low, full voice. "Shit. Is it wrong...is it wrong of me to think that, perhaps...He should have been mine?"

Harry found a white shirt and a red jumper, and stood to hand them to Ron. His face was guarded as he spoke, finely tuned to give just enough censure and just enough understanding.

"There's nothing wrong with Larry, Ron," Harry said firmly. Ron accepted the clothes without truly seeing them, and only nodded at the ceiling. "He's not flawed, no matter who his father is. But...there's no reason that he can't become your son."

Now Ron did focus his blue eyes at Harry, and a flash of annoyance flickered through them before he settled his gaze at the borrowed clothes.

Harry had known, even as he spoke the words, that he sounded too hopeful. Much like the things that Hermione oft accused him of. Hoping that, after Ron returned, their torn worlds would be mended into the Happily Ever After that should have been. It was too soon, Harry realised. It was too soon to speak of the trio's reconstruction.

"Don't be naive, Harry," Ron retorted harshly, swinging his feet down the floor. He stood, nearly shoving Harry out of the way. The irate boy was nearly out the door before Harry called out:

"Do you need pants, Ron, or do you plan on going au naturel?"

With a frustrated growl, Ron turned and entered the room once more. "Prat."

"Git."

"Why do I even tolerate you?"

"Because I save your arse. The question is, why do I even tolerate you?"

"Because you enjoy staring at mine. Now hand over the pants, Harry, and let us end the most uncomfortable request I have ever given."

"Right. Larry's making tea. Off to the loo, that's a good lad."

"Will you sod off? And don't–Harry, are you coming with me, or is this my horrified imagination?"

"Well, I don't know if you remembered or not!"

"Bloody hell, Harry! I'm not as dumb as you look."

"Arguable, Ron. Very arguable."

Ron grit his teeth and crossed his arms as they both stood before the loo door. "I know things, all right? Just because I've been missing doesn't mean my mind has."

Ron thought he won the argument when Harry only regarded him with a slight frown. He had turned and opened the door when Harry stopped him with an unexpected and grave question.

"How do you know things, Ron? How did you know...all the things that you shouldn't have known?"

Was that suspicion in his best friend's voice? Or was it concern? Either way, Ron didn't like it. And he didn't like that, if he didn't answer now, there would be a false air of friendliness downstairs, pretending how it was a lovely reunion whilst Harry Potter kept an eye on the possibly evil.

"Not by choice," was all that Ron offered gruffly as he shut the door and locked it. The Weasley was half afraid that Harry would magically unlock it, and then force an interrogation on him, disregarding his identity for the sake of safety. It had happened to the twins, after all.

Ron had wanted to help them. To tell Fred and George that they were not alone, although the wizards had separated them, and that there was still one brother present to comfort them. But that was not an option. For then, Fred or George would claim speaking to their dead younger brother, and then the Ministry officials would have more reason to keep them confined.

Out of all the cruel tactics used when questioning the returned pair, Ron thought as he disrobed quickly and started a shower, the separation was the worst. Fred would dream of how George was faring, for, when they were apprehended, his twin had had a bad cold. And George would wonder if Fred was eating decently, for his brother would often joke about the poor quality food the Ministry offered their workers. Then the interrogators would say horrible things, mad things; things that made Ron ache to break the rules and step out from the shadows.

Even now, as Ron washed and rinsed his aching, bruised body, his fists clenched at the memories.

They said to one that the other had been released. Those rotten bastards, those lying pricks, claimed that Fred was gone now, and enjoying his freedom. That George had been released for showing more cooperation. That they had consulted the Weasley family, and the clan thought it best to hold them a while longer, for more information.

_Stupid tossers_, Ron thought as he shut off the water. The mere suggestion of such disloyalty made Ron's teeth ache.

And the mere thought of the self doubt, the confusion, the fear that the twins had experienced made Ron's blood boil.

They always told him that he was far too temperamental. Ron recalled the words as he redressed. And, yes, sometimes, he was. And he was not ashamed of this possibly true characteristic. For he could think of no other proper reaction than rage when it came to the hurt of his loved ones. Yes, his responses were sometimes heated, unplanned, thoroughly without reason nor control...but what else could he feel, when his brothers were hurt? When his friends were insulted? When his loved one cried?

The trousers, surprisingly enough, were not as short as he expected. Ron relaxed somewhat as he found the shirt and jumper fit as well. Either Harry had grown, or he had them tailored too long.

Ron looked at his expression skeptically. He looked like a wanker. Dressed to impress. Kind of reminded of him of Percy, actually.

With a wrinkled nose, Ron tore off the jumper, quickly undid the button up shirt to throw it to the ground, and pulled on the jumper once more. The jumper was sufficient in itself; what was the point of wearing a shirt, just to have the collar showing? He had no idea why Harry continued the habits of uniform, so long after graduation.

Then again, the reason they had taken this detour was because of appearance. He did not want to appear so shabby in front of his family, when he finally did see them. But he didn't want to appear too forced either. He simply wanted to look himself.

But, the funny thing was, whenever Ron looked at himself, he always seemed incomplete somehow...without her. It wasn't that she had to be at his side for hours on end, for the simple sake of feeling whole. It was simply a matter of knowledge. Knowledge that she possibly no longer loved him somehow stole a part of him away, making the reflections in the mirrors and windows oddly flat, unfinished. The knowledge that she loved him wholeheartedly, without the wisp of a doubt, miraculously made his self-image grow, making Ron feel like a giant instead of a slightly average young man.

So when he saw Hermione and Harry chatting in low voices as he approached the table, Ron suddenly feared that, no matter what his appearance, the face waiting in the mirrors would never please him. If Hermione, Harry, and even his family regarded him with that cruel tinge of caution, then he was no longer the Ronald Weasley he had hoped to be. He was somebody of little luck and no certainty. For if his own loved ones could not decide upon a definite purpose and role of him, then Ron found that he had no idea what to think of himself either.

He absently returned their hellos, and sat himself next to Harry, in an effort to avoid awkwardness with Hermione. It was only a matter of time, really, before she pounced upon him with sensible questions. Such as, "How do you know so much?" Or, "Why did you choose Draco?" And perhaps, "So long in the loo and you couldn't bother to shave?"

But Hermione looked up from Lawrence and smiled. Before he and Hermione had come to terms with the glaringly obvious and began to date, Ron often regarded any thing in her arms as a "Lucky Bastard." Anything. Really. Her books became "Lucky Bastard Books." Crookshanks transformed from flat faced, hairy pig to "Lucky Pig Bastard" when she was cuddling that fortunate feline. Even when she gave Harry a hug, and Ron knew it to be strictly platonic, he could not help but put his best friend in the illegitimate category. But then Ron and Hermione had come to their senses, and there was no need to be jealous of anything wrapped in her arms.

But, he thought as he observed the baby, now, it was very difficult to tell what they were. It was not quite so easy to stifle that "Lucky Bastard" habit, now that he knew it was a very real possibility she might never lovingly hug him again. Yet Ron refrained, seeing that it was just an infant, and the poor infant was _actually _illegitimate. To go about, mentally casting insults about the very obvious was beneath him, even if those insults were directed towards a half-Malfoy child.

Then she spoke in a bewilderingly familiar voice, one so soft that even Harry leaned close to hear her question. Ron nearly blushed as he remembered that he used to call this sort of tone her "Astronomy Tower Voice." It would not do, he decided when he observed the seriousness in her eyes, to remind her of the silly fact.

"How are you feeling, Ron?"

It was such a simple question, but Ron could not think of any possible answer that wouldn't have bored them to tears. All the things he plaguing him could not have been repaired by mere magic.

He scratched his head, and felt his fingers slide against the wet hair. "Damp."

Harry blinked several times before handing Ron his cup. "I'm so happy our time apart has improved your vocabulary."

Hermione gasped and slapped Harry's arm. "That's my line!"

"What?" Both Harry and Ron asked, causing Lawrence to shift a bit.

"I said that to you! You stole my line!"

"Hermione," Harry groaned with a roll of his eyes. "Just because somebody says something brilliantly witty does not mean they stole it from you–"

"You did, you little bastard, you did! When I suggested Poppy as a possible romantic option, and you could say nothing other than–"

Harry, who had been frowning thoughtfully, now laughed and nodded. "Yes, you're right. Sorry. But, hell, Hermione, you never trademarked it or anything."

Hermione looked somewhat appeased by this confession, and sent him a lofty smile.

Ron looked between the two, and felt the absurd urge to raise his hand. "Who's Poppy?"

"Our friend," Hermione answered, beaming.

"Evil muggle," Harry supplied at the same time.

"You'll like her, Ron," Hermione assured him, anxious to make him feel at ease.

"If you enjoy daily torment," Harry added cheerfully.

"Oh, well, I'm used to it," Ron replied distractedly before burning his tongue on his tea. While he grimaced at the sharp pain, he noticed a stilted silence falling upon the room, and looked up to find the worried eyes of his best friends.

Oh crap. Ron's frown deepened as he took another sip, now paying no attention to the temperature. He hadn't meant to be so depressing. He had simply spoken without thinking. _Time to curb that habit_, Ron decided. One could not go about, blurting the most honest things, when one was intending to keep a secret.

So, it fell upon the newly returned hero to introduce a new subject, in which chirpy grins were exchanged and painful pasts were forgotten. He always considered himself a connoisseur of conversation.

"What time is it, Harry?"

Right, so it hadn't completely erased the growing anxiety from Hermione's gaze, but it did manage to distract Harry for a moment.

"Quarter til."

"Til what?"

"Nine."

"Really?"

"Are you accusing me of resurrecting my friend only to lie to him about the time?"

"Yes, Harry, exactly. You've caught me and all my devious accusations. Really. How do you do it?"

Hermione had somehow forgotten how dry Ron sometimes became, and found herself oddly pleased with his parched sense of humour. Even if he would not meet her eyes, and even if he spent a disturbing amount of time staring at her child, it meant that he was normal. Still.

_Well, what did you expect? _she asked herself harshly. Oh, she was not an idiot. Of course the sight of Draco's child would not have sent Ron into titters–little would, come to think of it. And, naturally, he would not be willing to love it so readily, as Harry had. But she had not expected the initial silence. She had not expected that wariness in his eyes as he approached her baby. She had not expected the hurt of his reluctance to slash quite so deeply.

Whether it was the aftereffects of pregnancy or her female instincts, Hermione was not quite certain. No matter what the basis, she suddenly thought that, in order to find comfort, one had to find food. True, the latter did not provide permanent status of the former, but her stomach cared not for the brevity.

While Ron was studying Harry's pocket watch and shaking it next to his ear–much to the offense of one very pocket watch-sensitive Harry Potter–Hermione stood suddenly. "It is time for supper," she declared.

It was, by far, one of the best combinations in Ron's rather young life. Food and Hermione. Hermione supporting the idea of food. Oh yes, at this moment, life was very okay.

"We should eat at the Burrow," Harry agreed calmly.

_No, I take that back_, Ron decided, in a near panic. Life was far from okay.

"They would have eaten already," Ron said sensibly, hating the thudding in his heart. If he hadn't been fearing their suspicions of madness, Ron would have yelled at the irritating organ to pipe the hell down.

"Still," Hermione argued, with a small, incredulous laugh. "I'm sure they'd be willing to eat again."

"I–" Ron frowned, and slowly pushed away from the table. "I don't want to bother them."

_Well_, he thought, inwardly rolling his eyes at his poor behaviour. _That was a shitty line._

"I find that danger very unlikely," Harry responded with the same concerned disbelief Hermione had exhibited.

Ron let out an easy breath, and took to studying the edge of the table with absurd fascination. _What to say, what to say? _The questions drilled at his mind like so many insects, and, for the life of him, Ron could not find the right answer to push the parasites away.

"Ron," Hermione pleaded softly, stepping around the table. Her eyebrows were furrowed with confusion. "Ron...don't you want to see them?"

He found that he could not answer, at least not straightaway. He did not know the answer, exactly. For, yes, every fibre of his being screamed to be reunited with his flesh and blood once more. But what would happen if he did see them? Would he look into their faces, changed and aged, and recall the images he had no right to see? Would they look into his eyes and know the darkness that had permanently stained him? It would not be much of a family reunion, Ron supposed, if one feared the actual family.

"I'd..." he faltered, hating to lie. No good came of lying. Even if one got away with it, the haunting knowledge of falseness always lingered. At least, it always did with him. "I'd just like to rest a bit."

Harry stood as well, and regarded Ron with crossed arms.

Which Ron found extremely surreal. There was Harry Potter, former partner in crime and fellow slacker, dressed in professor's robes and giving him an extremely reproving look. Bloody hell, what next? The Hogwarts conversion into a spa?

"You slept the whole way home," he pointed out reasonably.

Ron wished to argue that he had faked it, to avoid conversation with them...but he had the distinct impression that the confession would not bode well with the two.

"Harry," Hermione scolded lightly, "you mustn't push Ron." This small defense made Ron love her, just a bit more.

"...Even if he does offer ridiculously brittle excuses for his behaviour."

Ron thought this somewhat insulting, but, seeing how Harry had relaxed on his suspicious stance, he thought it best not to argue.

"But, it's terrible, Hermione," Harry argued, and, as if suddenly remembering he was finally within their presence, he added, "Ron. It's terrible, to let them continue in their grief, knowing we could stop it. Wouldn't you want to know, the moment he returned, that there was no reason to cry? Would you want to know, instead of lingering?"

Lawrence emitted a small sound, and offered Hermione an excuse to look away as she contemplated her response. "I...yes, of course I would. But this is a monumental moment for Ron as well. To force such a thing on him when he is unprepared would ruin his happiness."

"Please," Ron blurted through clenched teeth, "Please, stop." He backed even further away, and then began his retreat from the kitchen. "Don't talk like this, all right? Don't analyse me, nor my family. Don't plan, as if you two know what's best for us. We're not projects, and we're not problems to find solutions for. Everything you're saying is hypothetical, all right? You don't know, so you shouldn't put your judgement on it."

"Ron," Hermione began to plead, stepping closer.

"Ron," Harry also said, though with a great deal less softness. He was watching his friend with a hard gaze, disliking how utterly ungrateful he was being. Not a problem? Of course the absence of a son made the Weasley clan a problem! Why was it so horrible to have found the solution? The only reason Ron was telling them off now, Harry estimated, was because everything they had been saying was true.

"Harry, Hermione," Ron said curtly by way of farewell, and marched out, into the corridor, and out the front door. To Hermione, the soft shutting of the door led her to believe that Ron was not so angry at them, for it showed a small amount of courtesy by not slamming it. To Harry, the soft click sounded absurdly like a cowardly exit.

"Harry, don't," Hermione begged as he angrily followed after him.

"Don't what, Hermione? He's acting like a fucking child!"

"Harry, don't swear! Nor yell, you'll wake Lawrence!"

"Very sorry, Hermione, but that's all I feel like doing. Seeing how you don't want either around Larry, the only solution I see is going outside and telling off Ron."

"Harry, Christ–"

"No, Harry Potter."

"Shut up. Just think, please? He's bewildered! He can barely regain his bearings, and here we are, forcing him to think of a whole other aspect of his life that irrevocably changed. Everything's different, and he needs time to adjust!"

"So what, Hermione? I found everything changed when I returned, but I hadn't thrown a fit like that."

"You left willingly, Harry, there's a difference." Hermione shook her head, with a small, pitying laugh. "What did you expect, Harry? That Ron would return, and we'd be the Golden Trio again? What did you expect? The same, happy, untroubled little boy I had agreed to marry?"

"Why not?" Harry retorted defensively, shaking away her hand, which she had placed coaxingly on his arm. "I know you've changed and I know I've definitely changed, but why not the same thing for Ron? Look at him, Hermione! He was still in his school robes! He hasn't aged! So why can't he just...just..."

Harry could not finish, for he found the thought too ridiculous to say aloud. It was so silly, to expect Ron Weasley to return as simply Ron Weasley. How could he have entertained such a fantastical idea? His eyes shut wearily. Hope had blinded him, and, worse yet, Harry had allowed it. He would have never imagined that, after war and so many deaths, he would have allowed optimism to distort his vision.

Heedless of Hermione's tender words of comfort, Harry continued his journey out the kitchen and to the front door, all the while muttering, "Golden Trio my arse. More like tarnished."

Harry was ready to hug his arms to fight away the cold the minute he had stepped outside Number Twelve, when he saw Ron standing idly just outside the door. Then, because there was another male present, Harry dropped his hands to his sides and pretended perfect equanimity with the chilly temperatures.

"The whole idea of dramatic departure is to actually end up someplace else."

"Oh, but I haven't your robes. And what is the point of dramatically departing if one cannot billow?"

"Is this going to be a regular thing? Making fun of my robes, my temporary occupation? Because, really, I get enough skepticism from your sister."

"I heard," Ron retorted wryly, and studied the belligerent heavens. Without preamble, he confided in his best friend. Ron did not know why it was easy to do so, so soon after joking, but there it was. "It is not a matter of wanting to see them. Of course I'd like to see them. More than like really..." Ron sighed, and kicked idly at a pebble. "Well...do you remember, how, after dad was attacked, you didn't want to face us? You were afraid of our reactions?"

"Well, yeah, "Harry answered readily, too jaded to even wince at the memory. The professor was confused. "But that was different. I had thought it was my fault. You going away wasn't your fault at all. Did you think it was?"

"No," Ron answered with a laugh, shoving his hands in his pockets. Harry took this to be a slight acknowledgment of the weather, and gratefully sheltered his hands in his robes as well. "But, you had seen things, right? Things you felt you shouldn't have seen?" Upon seeing Harry nod, Ron let out a sigh of relief. "There, see? That's what I feel. I'd like to sort it all, first. Separate fact from fiction, before I speak to them. Before I..." Ron shrugged, and observed their surroundings with apparent apprehension. "You understand?"

Not fully, no. But that was only because Ron hadn't told him all there was to tell about nonexistence. Perhaps, after Ron had told him that–which he would, Harry reasoned, for it was only a matter of time between best mates–perhaps Harry would then fully comprehend why Ron was acting so strangely when it came to the subject of his own family.

"Absolutely," Harry replied, nodding vigorously. "Come on, let's go back and explain it to Hermione. Knowing her, she'll be nose deep in a family psychology book if we don't intervene."

"I was wondering how much cold you'd take before inviting me back in."

"Well, you just showered, and it isn't healthy to stand in such temperatures after a washing," Harry fairly shouted defensively before giving a sheepish expression. "Bugger off, Ron. And are those my jeans?"

"Yeah. I didn't like the trousers, sorry."

"Why are they so long?" Harry tilted his head, studying the cuffs.

"I cut the hem."

"What?"

"It's very simple really. Mum did it all the time, when we outgrew our trousers. I found a nail file in your room–"

"Lies!"

"All right, I found a nail file in Hermione's room, and put it to good use." Harry continued to stare at him in disbelief, and Ron added, "The stitching on the inside is fairly easy to–"

"Oh shut up," Harry cut in with a frown. He turned away and clasped the door knob. "There is such a thing as magic, you know. No need to go about ruining other people's clothing."

He was ready to go on, about proper respect for the jean-maker's craftsmanship when, without much needed warning, he was attacked from behind.

_Oh_, he realised. Not attacked. Hugged. Ron was hugging him.

"You're a good friend, Harry," Ron said in, if Harry wasn't mistaken, a highly embarrassed voice. "Go on and tell Hermione whatever you want. Just let me stew out here for a while, all right?"

"Er...okay. But you'll have to let go, if you want me to..."

Ron had already released him, even backing away as quickly as possible before Harry could finish his strained request. Harry sent him a half annoyed, half puzzled glance, and then shook his head as he stepped over the threshold.

He spent a moment savouring the warmth of the dreary abode, regaining feeling in his fingers and toes as he made his way to the brightly lit kitchen.

Where Hermione was breast feeding again.

Blech. Harry managed, just barely, to stifle his usual urge to back away in abject horror. While he liked women's breasts in general, he did not like to think of sustenance coming from the lovely pairs. And he definitely abhorred the idea of sustenance coming from his best friend's breasts. When Lawrence grew old enough to digest non-mammary substances, Harry would be infinitely happy.

"Where is he?" Hermione asked him anxiously, as if it were perfectly normal to carry on a conversation with one nipple exposed like that. Well, not exposed, really, but...there. Which was enough to make Harry focus on the table corner.

"Did you catch him? Was he feeling well? Did you get him to confide in you? And it's cold, and his hair is wet, so he mustn't–"

"He's fine, Hermione," Harry swiftly assured the table corner. "Impossible as it sounds, Ron just wants a few moments to think."

"That's unkind, Harry," Hermione upbraided him strongly, which startled her best friend somewhat. He saw no reason to tease, just a bit, just as he always had. Then he remembered that she had spent a few month with an incurable git who no doubt belittled any and every one. That defending people's reputations habit most likely sprung from that.

"Maybe," Hermione was now saying, addressing Lawrence as if the child truly cared, "maybe all Ron needs is a bit of food. He hasn't eaten all day. Maybe if we conjured a nice supper beforehand, he'll feel more confident."

"Sounds reasonable enough," Harry answered and sat down. Hermione, who had been pacing, raised an eyebrow. "What? You always do the cooking."

"I've got my hands full, at the moment. Unless you'd like to switch."

Now Harry did allow his full revulsion show on his face, and raised his hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. I don't understand why you still snap at me so. The pregnancy mood swings ought to be gone by now. Unless you're going to rely on that usual excuse of PMS again...uh oh."

"I know," Hermione lamented quietly, "I thought pregnancy was a pain, but the idea of menstru–"

"Gah! Stop it, stop it right there!" Harry begged, scrambling away from his seat. "That was not the reason I had emitted an 'uh oh'!" Harry shook his head, appearing utterly traumatised. "Christ, Hermione, I can't believe you almost discussed that with me! Of all the people...I mean it's not as if I even _look _like a girl..."

"Harry," Hermione sighed loudly. She wished she and Ginny were on speaking terms, or that Poppy was back. "Why did you say 'uh oh' then?"

"Because I can't find my wand."

Hermione rolled her eyes and was, thankfully, done with Lawrence for the time being. While she pulled up her collar, she sent Harry a knowing look. "Haven't I always told you to check your pockets before doing the laundry? How could you have not learned from the last catastrophe–"

"No, Hermione," Harry interrupted with rising annoyance. "I can't find my wand. And Ron hugged me."

"That was sweet. But I fail to see the connection."

Harry said nothing when he, once more, left Number Twelve. Really. It was amazing how little Hermione Granger knew these days.

xoxox

_Would this work? _Ron wondered.

He had ran as far as possible as soon as the door had swung shut.

But, what if it had been a futile effort? What if he had strained his leg muscles, burned his lungs, and braved the icy winds for no reason at all?

Ron paced at the nameless street corner, concentrating with all his might. It wasn't a spell, exactly. More like an imbecilic mantra. Complete with imbecilic position.

_I am a wizard and I need emergency transportation. I am a wizard and I need emergency transportation. I am a wizard and I need emergency transportation. I am a wizard..._

What if he was unknowingly telling a lie? Ron thought hard as he paced to and fro in the concrete darkness, wand hand flung out like a signaling idiot. For a few minutes, he pondered the possibility of Stan Shunpike bending over a long list of witches and wizards in the kingdom, and deciding that Ron Weasley was no longer on that list.

Which was why he had nicked the wand from Harry. Even if he was off the list of existence, Harry Potter's wand was certainly officially counted for. He hadn't liked to embrace Harry like that, but it couldn't be helped. He needed something magical and a bit of money as well. As a best friend, Harry was sure to forgive him for the slight theft.

If it did come, Ron wasn't sure he wanted to go through the whole alphabet. Perhaps, since it was so cold and reasonably late, there would be no other wizards nor witches. Perhaps they could go straight away to Ottery St. Catchpole.

And, if they couldn't, Ron decided he'd make a special request. Surely there was some things–like long overdue family reunions–that could persuade Prang to stray off course, just a bit.

A vehicle stopped. Ron nearly stamped his foot with frustration. Instead, he did the mature thing and swore up a storm.

"Third one already," he muttered as he approached the driver. "Thank you, but no."

"But your hand is out."

"Yes, I appreciate your observation skills, but no, I didn't want a taxi."

"Then I suggest you don't stand on the street corner, looking as if you want a taxi," the driver rudely returned before accelerating away.

In compliance with his advice, Ron frowned and simply stood, wondering at the next course of action. His arm had begun to ache any way. He felt the familiar stirring of burning anger within him once more, but decided to let it fizzle out. No matter. In a few hours time, he'd be with his family once more, and he'd ask his dad to do something about this whole Knight Bus mess. Maybe all they had to do was put Ron Weasley back on the list, or something else equally simple.

How far was London from Ottery St. Catchpole? Ron shook his head, amazed by his own stupidity. Too far for walking, obviously.

"Shit," he swore violently. One would think today was supposed to be a good day! If it wasn't going to be sunny, then at least let the Knight Bus come for him! That was Ron's logic, at any rate.

"That's not what most wizards say when we turn up," Stan said in an offended tone. "If you don't want to hop on, then fine. Me and Ernie'll just–"

"Shut up, shut up," Ron told him brusquely, climbing on as soon as possible. He stood for a while, staring out the windscreen as he dug deeply within his pockets. "What the hell took so long?"

"Oh, you think you could make it from Lincoln in better time?" Shunpike asked, affronted.

Ron said nothing as he dropped a few coins he had taken from Harry's dresser into the man's waiting hand. It seemed everybody was in a rotten mood tonight.

"No, you're right, sorry," Ron muttered as he shuffled past. He settled on the brass bedstead in the far back, and said nothing as he glanced out the windows, the view of which had grown distorted by the collecting raindrops. Within a few seconds, however, the moisture quickly evaporated, leaving nothing behind but a crystal clear glance of the blurred world.

"Wait, I forgot to ask you where you wanted to go," Stan called out.

Percy once said that, by the mere sight of Ron, one would think Weasley. As quick tempered as their mum, and nearly the exact image of their dad. This used to worry Ron, at times, for he did not want to go bald. And, somebody or other once said that, when one thought of Weasley, one thought of the Burrow.

"Ottery St. Catchpole. The Burrow."

"Are you sure you want to be botherin' them?" Shunpike demanded. Faintly, Ron wondered why he continued to shout like that, possibly disturbing the slumber of the upper level passengers, when it was very easy to walk over to his bed.

"Are you sure you want to continue bothering me?" Ron returned tetchily.

"Fair play," Stan muttered, and settled in his seat.

It was nine now. What did his family do around nine? Ron found that he could not remember. It had been ages since his entire family gathered at the Burrow. Only on special occasions, as Bill's holiday time was limited, and Charlie hated to make his dragons think he had been neglecting them. And Percy was often out, too, looking for jobs, or attempting to tell Fred and George how to run their business. Gave some good advice, too, if Ron was forced to tell the truth.

But there would be no fiscal discussions tonight. No fretting of long-distance dragons. No discussions of currency exchange rates. He wondered if they had finished eating, and were sitting at the table in morose silence. Or, perhaps, lolling about the house, putting the precious free time to good use. Maybe they were sending condolence letters to others, to show proper etiquette. Ron shook his head. He hadn't known about Dean. Poor Seamus.

Ginny seemed terribly upset. Had things gotten so bad at the Burrow that she wished to fetch his best friends, in an effort to cheer the rest of his family up? He didn't like the thought of that. If they truly were "celebrating his life," as she claimed, then there ought to have been no reason for outside reinforcements. There were plenty of things to laugh about Ron Weasley. Surely celebrations of lives didn't include any weeping?

Because, truly, Ron didn't like the sound of mum weeping. It was the most terrible thing in the world. The one time he had heard it...felt it, really, in his blank world...Ron had tried to fix it, which was a mistake. So, really, two years later...he sorely hoped his mum still didn't cry about him.

Ron wondered about his mum. He wondered if she had found any new recipes to improve. If she had stopped silently weeping into her pillow. If she ever visited the twins' shop. If she had changed.

Ron thought about his dad. He thought about his alarmingly large battery collection. About the stress of more work and less family had caused him. About his ability to smile warmly while his insides froze. About the differences.

Bill was what...twenty nine, now? _God_, Ron thought. _That's old. _That was nearly thirty. _He ought to be thinking of marriage and babies by now. _And why not? He had a nice stable job, and his own flat. Mum was probably aching for some grand children. And Ron rather liked the thought of being an uncle.

Uncle Ron. _Is that what Lawrence would call me?_

Ron shook off the thought. This furtive journey was about getting away from all that. He was going to a place where he didn't have to worry about Harry's secrets, Hermione's new problems, and the past. He was going home.

It wasn't that he hated Harry and Hermione. Truly, he appreciated them. He'd have to be one hell of a prick to not appreciate them. But the idea of appearing at the Burrow, to his family, with them made Ron frown. It would have made him feel like some sort of presented masterpiece. Try as he might, he could not shake off the image of Harry and Hermione pulling back red curtains, showing off their latest product of ingenuity. They would not have aimed for such a presentation, true, but they could not have stalled Ron's apprehension.

His eyes darted forward slightly, and saw the pair sitting complacently in their armchairs. Didn't they have family to mourn tonight? Or were they each other's family?

"They make you work tonight, of all nights, Stan?" He found himself saying, disliking the quietness. Oh, it wasn't completely silent–that was something Ron knew very well–but he figured somebody ought to say something, to smother the nosie of that softly sobbing witch in the upper levels.

"Oh, Ernie don't mind. 'e says I can leave 'round midnight, if I want."

"That's nice of him."

"Yeah. What's your name?"

"Ron."

"Ron what?"

"Ron Weasley."

Ron looked away from the window, and watched as the sporadic street lights illuminated the growing confusion on Stanley's face.

"Where have you been?" Stan wanted to know with a laughing gasp.

_Well_, Ron thought with some simplistic pleasure, _that was easy. At least he hadn't fainted._

"Out."

"I thought it was you," Stan said in a awed voice, rushing closer. "I thought it was you! But then I said, Nah! That one's dead!"

"Brilliant deduction."

"But then 'ere you are! So you can't be!"

There were far too many sarcastic remarks for Stan's genuine enthusiasm, so Ron only nodded complacently.

"So what's happened then? What's goin' on? Where–"

"Here we are," Ron said quickly, standing and stumbling over the young man, who had been partially kneeling in the aisle.

"But we're not at the Burrow just yet," Ernie protested.

"I'll walk," Ron told him shortly, and stood at the closed doors. He barely had enough time to step onto the pavement before the shockingly purple contraption sped off into invisibility. Vaguely, he wondered if he should have asked Stan to keep it a secret. He didn't know precisely why his presence had to be kept a secret, mind you, but when one was friends with Harry Potter, it was best to keep everything very hush-hush. Then, after he pondered the missed opportunity for five more seconds, Ron Weasley began to walk.

He had not been at the Burrow for ages. The Christmas of seventh year had been spent at Hermione's house. The few weeks before the school year began had taken place at Diagon Alley. Ron had not been at his home for nearly four months and two years.

The muggle routes of Ottery St. Catchpole might as well have been an entirely different country.

But Ron knew the main roads well enough, and thought that, all the small streets would eventually connect to the larger ones. He had the niggling reminder of Harry's wand in his back pocket, but decided that it was best to leave that option unused. What if set off some sort of hero signal the minute foreign hands illegally used it? Nope, Ron decided, briskly walking to the nearest street lamp, no I do not need assistance. He had no idea which was the right direction and how far along he was in his journey, but Ron decided that those circumstances did not merit the need to stop and ask for directions.

He wished he had nicked Harry's watch. Pretty little thing, that. Harry had probably paid too much for it. Rich people never really knew how to bargain with vendors. Another reason that Ron appreciated his own return. He'd save Harry from unscrupulous salesmen.

At least, if he had decided to run away earlier, he might have been able to guess the time by the rate of the sunset. But one could not guess which darkness meant nine or ten o'clock, and so Ron was left walking mindlessly in the windy cold, hoping his family was not settling in for the night.

Although he had deliberately escaped to achieve solitude, Ron contrarily now wished for some companionship. Hell, even Stan was better than the howling nothingness of now. For nothingness, Ron dismally knew, only forced people to think. And, though he hated to fall prey to stereotype, Ron did hate to think.

For if he thought, his mind would have inevitably led to Hermione. Of her betrayal–if it was, in fact, a betrayal by technical terms. Then the pondering of technical terms would only force him to remember the horrible morning, during which he had so stupidly–so incredibly stupidly–accepted her jumper. And then that morning would lead him further back in time...to that night. That horrible, soul crushing night.

No matter. Ron shook off the anchoring thoughts, and held himself a little straighter. He began to whistle, horribly off key and not at all pleasantly, to distract himself. In a few minutes, he would be home. There'd be a lovely amount of food, hopefully little to no tears, and an eternity of smiles. In a few minutes, he would be happy again.

"Stoatshead Hill," Ron read one sign to himself. He groaned, smacking his palm to his forehead. "Bloody hell!"

"You are the greatest arse hole, you know that?"

Without turning, Ron reached into his back pocket and pulled out the wand. He rolled it between his fingers, studying it intently in the dim light.

"Do you have some sort of tracking device on it, then?"

"No. I've a mind, and you only have one other place to go. That's how I found you."

Ron sighed, and turned to tiredly hand Harry his wand. The displeased best friend took it without a word, and regarded him with a shaking head.

"Sometimes I think I understand you absolutely. And then you go and do something completely without explanation."

Ron sent him an annoyed glance as he shuffled past. Stoatshead Hill was north of his home, so, logically, Ron began heading in the opposite direction. "Why should I explain myself to you? Why do you, and Hermione for that matter, always have to know everything? What? Are you two allowed to keep secrets, but not everybody else?"

"It would be infinitely easier for me if things worked that way," Harry agreed, falling into step beside him. "Besides, where do you get off, disappearing like that? Hermione'll be sick with worry."

"No," Ron laughed a little. "Reckon she has other things to worry about now."

Harry slowly eased to a halt, and watched as his best friend trudged down the dark road. "You aren't replaced Ron. You think you have been, but you aren't. One can tell how she's fought to keep a little space reserved for–"

"Can we please stop with the evaluations?" Ron asked the heavens with flung out arms as he continued to leave Harry farther and farther behind. "Go away Harry. Give me all your theories later. I don't feel like dwelling on the immovable at the moment."

He thought he had complied. As Ron moved in and out of the bright spheres created by the street lamps, he heard nothing behind him.

Then Harry spoke, some ways behind him, and nearly made Ron jump with fright.

"From age one to eighteen, we wish we're bigger, older, so that we could do more things. And, then, at this age until we die, we hope for the past, to be younger so that we could do all the things that we had meant to do before we became older. Is there any place when we're happy?"

"Yeah. Those philosophy-free places. Help me make the world a better place, Harry, and shut the hell up."

"You're not truly angry with me," Harry told him knowingly, falling into step beside him. "You're upset because you're nearing the end of adolescence, and wish to relive the carefree days of youth. It happens to us all."

"And when did it happen to you?" Ron asked him snidely, not bothering to see whether his friend was serious or not. Harry tended to get absurdly thoughtful sometimes, he now remembered, when there was very little to think about. "When you were twelve?"

"Oh, I'm not so unnaturally mature as that. I entered my post adolescent nostalgia phase when I was fourteen."

"You lie."

"Yes, and quite skillfully too."

They walked in silence for a while, allowing Ron to summon just enough gravity for his next words.

"Please don't come with me, Harry," Ron requested as he began to recognise a few of the shops. "I'd rather you didn't."

Harry heaved a heavy sigh. Obviously, to ask Ron to explain his actions would only irritate him further. But Harry would have very much liked to be there, when Ron returned. He wanted some reassurance that he had done the right thing. And, if he hadn't, Harry thought it was best for him to be there, if Ron didn't receive the welcome he deserved. Or, if they plied Ron for the logic of his return. Somebody had to be there, in case something went wrong.

"You've done enough, Harry," Ron said softly as the nearly imperceptible road that led to Burrow crept modestly into view. The pair unthinkingly slowed their steps as the promising avenue seemed closer and closer. "Truly. You've done enough."

But that was it. There was never "enough" to be done, not when it came to the sake of his friends. His family.

"We've had our reunion," Ron reasoned quietly as they turned, slowly but steadily making their way to their cramped, cosy home. "I would not have wanted to meet you again, with my brothers present. It would not have been the same. I'd rather see them by myself."

Harry said nothing as the distance between them and the house grew shorter and shorter. _No_, the hurt, bewildered child in him protested. _No! _Why did Ron say "brothers," like that, as if he wasn't included in that category? He was an honorary Weasley, that Harry Potter. Everybody said as much. So why couldn't he be apart of the tearful, joyous reunion that was to come? Why did Ron want to exclude him so?

They stopped just before the garden.

There it was. Four stories of ramshackle bliss. All the lights were out, save for the one just below the attic. In that tiny, chamber, on the fifth landing, a small flickering candle appeared to be braving the intimidating darkness.

"What time is it, Harry?"

Harry told him the overpriced time, and Ron shook his head with some shame. Only an idiot would be walking about his own home village for two hours, utterly lost. Still, Ron thought as he looked over his home once more, a little past eleven was a tad early for his brothers to be retiring. He almost told Harry so, when he caught a brief glimpse of his best friend's face, and realised the truth.

He was afraid. He was afraid of his family, of his own reaction at seeing them quite mended minus one son, and so he asked Harry to go, in order to save face before one loved one at least. For if he was to plead, to beg them, to please, just accept him as their son once more, he would not want Harry to see. Harry was unsure of this revival already; to see Ron suffering more would only further the pain.

He was afraid of everyone, it seemed, and Ron began to wonder whatever made him a Gryffindor in the first place.

But Harry was thinking something a little bit different. He found his best friend to be something more than he ever thought him to be. For in that house awaited pain, and surprise. Hurt and doubt. Tears and false smiles–which stung more than displeased frowns. There were dozens, possibly hundreds of people willing to make this transition easier for Ron Weasley. And yet he wanted to do so alone. It might have been unbearable tragedy in store for the youngest son, but Ron did not care. He wished to do it alone.

"Go on then."

Ron observed him in his peripheral vision, and found a stoic mask on his face. What was he hiding? Hurt? Excitement? Perhaps, he had been too cold in his rejection. Perhaps–

Without moving anything else, Harry managed to lift his arm and give Ron a shove in the right direction before the boy could defend himself.

Ron smirked, and continued the trek.

"May we come, in the morning?" he heard Harry ask in a low voice, very much like an eager little boy.

"I'd be very disappointed with the two of you if you don't," Ron said in reply, somehow hoping the wind would carry his quiet answer to his friend. To shout would have prematurely announced his presence, and Ron was not quite sure his family was ready for the surprise yet.

Either power or age had increased Harry's capabilities, for when he sent one last, absurdly panicked look over his shoulder as he reached the door, Ron found nothing at the lane save a waiting world. Nothing left then. Time to see his family.

Except the door was locked.

And Harry had taken his wand.

"Bugger," Ron sighed, closing his eyes. "Shit," he said again as he moved along the walls of the house in the unhelpful darkness. He did not want to knock; not on a door that had never been closed to him before. He simply wanted to find a way in.

_Yet another anticlimactic moment_, Ron thought as he ran into the gnarled trees hugging the side of the house. This whole reanimation business was terribly unexciting and misleading.

Hoping that the trees had grown steady enough to support a grown man's weight, Ron awkwardly made his way up the branches, the unfriendly twigs and knots giving him a few more scratches and bruises as he ascended further and further to his home. After a few exasperating minutes, Ron found himself with the second level, peering into Percy's room. Wonderful. The refuge of a prat. Just what every long lost son longed for.

Hoping his brother was not too deep in slumber, Ron balanced cautiously on a branch while he reached forward and knocked on the glass pane very lightly.

He wondered how Percy would react, seeing his dead little brother up in a tree, outside his window, near midnight. There was certainly no prattish protocol for that situation.

But nobody answered. Ron was very certain steam would be blowing out his ears at the absurdity of it all. The one night Percy does not maintain his perfect schedule had to be the night Ron wished to return to his family and announce his living status. Perfect. Just perfect.

He knocked harder, hoping that Perce was just outside his bedroom door. Bloody git. Ron had been ready to hug him, too, though he could not even remember the last time such an uncomfortable embrace had occurred, if at all. Ron began to knock so loudly that his knuckles–already tender from punching a certain person's eye earlier–began to ache with the force.

"That's it," Ron panted, heaving himself up to the branch above him. He attempted to stand and was promptly punished for such audacious positioning when he slammed his head against one solid arm of wood. "That's it! No hug for Percy. Can't believe that arse isn't sleeping at this time of night–"

"It _is _a special occasion, Ron."

Ron quitted his quest for the next floor, and remained motionless in his crouched position. Either owls had grown miraculously advanced during his absence, or the unsleeping arse had given him a reasonable excuse for his delay .

Ron looked over his shoulder and down, barely making out the outline of his third eldest brother. Percy was dressed for slumber all right, but Ron spied the faint flashes off his horn rimmed glasses as the twenty three year old leaned against the open window. He knew not the exact hardships of bad eyesight, but Ron reckoned one did not need them to dream in focus.

"Come on in, Ron," Percy invited flatly.

Ron maintained his launching position, for no other reason than sheer confusion. He had never heard Percy speak with such amiability–at least, not since his voice had changed. Even then, friendliness was always reserved for elders, and professors, and people who could improve his economic situation. Never for younger brothers.

But it was not friendliness, Ron estimated, that made Percy reach out and jerk his ankle closer to the house. He very nearly lost his balance, which would have resulted in a painful landing of branch-between-the-legs. As Ron scrambled to regain his balance and then hurried inside the open window, he gave a glare to the careless brother.

They were both tall, so it was not necessary for Ron to look down at this family member, like he had to with his friendlier relatives. In fact, Percy met his eyes very easily as they studied one another, unable to say a thing. Ron felt his skin crawl as those bespectacled eyes scanned Ron from head to toe. Was this to be endured so silently, so compliantly? Did it make him less of a man, less of a person, to let flesh and blood doubt him like this?

But, Ron soon learned, it was not _Percy _who had been doing the doubting.

"So you're not injured then?" Percy asked gravely.

Ron thought of mentioning the obviously dangerous yanking stunt Perce had just committed a few minutes prior, but then belatedly noted the tense waiting in his elder brother's eyes.

Percivale placed two hands on Ron's shoulders, bringing him a step closer. Though Ron first observed his expression to be serene, he saw now that Perce's eyes were frantic as the gaze swept over his younger brother's face.

"You're not hurt?" Percy asked louder. The fingers that had clamped on his shoulders dug a bit deeper, making Ron wince. "They managed without trouble? You're not hurt then, Ron, you're not in need of healing?"

"No, Percy," Ron answered with a hint of a smile.

He was not laughing at his older brother, not at this uncharacteristic display of concern. He was smiling for the fact that he had been worrying that things were no longer to be the same, ever again, and here they were reliving their childhood. How often had he fallen, Ron wondered as Percy observed his facial cuts and bruises with growing worry, how often had he fallen as a child, either by accident or by twins, and Percy had treated him just like this? Picking him up, dusting him off, and quickly searching for injuries? True, it might have been for fear of their mother's wrath, for not watching the younger ones properly, but Ron liked to think otherwise. He liked to think that Percy loved them more than that common sense he now cherished so intensely. He liked to think that, though Percy saw there was no reason to fret, Percy fretted any way, for his love for his family quite overrode logic sometimes.

That was why there were moments when Percy was a complete prat. Overcompensation for past indulgences.

Percy let out an impatient sigh as he lifted Ron's damp hair to check the cut on his forehead. "I won't laugh, you know. You can tell me if you're hurt, and I promise I won't embarrass you."

And he wasn't lying. Percy might have been many things–quite a few of them unmentionable in their mum's presence–but he wasn't a liar. And Ron appreciated that. He had never quite known that he appreciated that until this moment, but he did.

"Well, how do I look?"

"Like you've been killed," Percy retorted flatly, refusing to acknowledge the jesting tone in his little brother's voice.

"No," Ron said, attempting with little success to pry his fingers from his shoulders. Ron was beginning to think that there would be permanent marks on his bones, if Perce kept this up. "Perhaps as if I've been pranged by an Anglia, but not killed."

"Ronald–"

"Don't you Ronald me," he requested. The words began as a joke but ended with an oddly serious note. "You're not a parental unit here, Perce. You're my brother."

Percy stood, fingers still limply curled on Ron's shoulders, and observed him in the hushed darkness without any motion. The youngest Weasley brother was bewildered by his fixed stance, wondering if he had said something wrong, but could not ,for the life of him, understand what. Percy _was _his brother. Nothing wrong with that.

"If I was any sort of brother," Percy said quietly, staring hard into his eyes, "then you would not have died."

Ron tilted his head, scrutinizing this strange statement as Percy appeared to be swallowing nothing. "You weren't there, Perce. How could you say that?"

"It doesn't matter," Percy shot back tersely. "There are rules when it comes to being an elder brother. And one of them is to protect the younger ones. And I didn't." He seemed to be breathing oddly, a strange shudder now and then hitching his words. Percy stepped back, as if he could not bear his presence. "And I _know _I wasn't there; I'm not an idiot. But distance does not signify when it comes to family."

_All right_, Ron thought as a strange pain squeezed his heart. It wasn't right, to see Percy so uncertain. For even if he was a prick when he was very sure of himself, Percy was a damned mess when he wasn't. _All right, a hug for Percy_.

"I'm sorry," Percy said as they embraced. He held onto him just as tight as Harry had, and Ron wondered if his lungs would ever recover from this day.

"There's no need to apologise," Ron assured him.

"Wrong response." And, because it was the wrong response, Ron thought he felt Percy's arms constrict to the point of homicidal intent. "Say you accept the apology."

"Oh crap," Ron wheezed, trying to push the maniac of a brother away. With no luck, however. "Fine, you idiot, I accept."

Once he was free to breathe once more, Ron glared at his older brother. "Blimey, Perce, I thought you were glad to see me alive."

"I am."

"Then what's this business of trying to smother me, you bleedin' loon?"

"I love you Ron," Percy said simply, with his patented pompous air. Ron would have recoiled from the maudlin sentiment–despite the fact that he knew it to be true–if Percy had said it any other way. "I'm allowed to hurt you."

Ron stood in befuddled silence as he attempted to sort out that simple logic before Percy gave him a shove. Privately, Ron lamented the primitive regression of his elder brother. When he had left, Percy had been a sensible young man with too many words. Now, he was the worst sort of buffoon, resorting to violence whenever emotions grew too great to convey verbally.

"Go on. Go see to the others."

Ron frowned. It was, quite obviously, the next step in this reuniting business. But he found that he did not want to. He wanted to stay here, a while, in Percy's room, and talk. This was a newfound intimacy, a frail sort of friendship, one that Ron was not sure they would be able to regain if he left now. He wanted to speak with Percy, ask him questions, use this strange, midnight moment to its fullest advantage–

"Go, Ron," Percy encouraged, placing a hand on his elbow and steering him to the door as if he were a child. "We can talk later."

_Yes_, Ron thought as he allowed himself to be pulled out of the room and up the narrow staircase, _yes, there is a later, isn't there? _

"Where is everybody?"

"In your room."

"Why?"

"You know why, Ron. Don't ask questions you already know the answer to."

Oh. Percy was scolding him again. He was definitely home.

It was eerily silent as they made their way farther and farther up. Sometime after the third floor, Percy had released Ron's arm, so that it could not be said that Ron had been forced in this endeavor. Those heavy steps that brought him closer and closer to the unknown were voluntarily, and decisive. This was his choice.

There was a low murmur of voices as he approached his bedroom door. _Ronald's Room_, the sign said, just in case somebody happened to be browsing the narrow fifth landing in search of an interesting stop. A small light whispered from beneath the door, and Ron found himself watching the unsteady amber instead of pushing his way in.

"Go on," Percy mouthed when Ron looked back at him, unsure.

Ron shook his head. Instead, he stepped slightly closer, and turned his head so that his ear was next to the thin opening.

It might have been cruel, to let them continue, knowing that he was the cause of their tears. Ron would have thought it to be the actions of a very low bastard, to let his family suffer simply because he feared their reaction.

But they were not crying.

No, the sounds softly wafting towards the exterior pair's ears were subdued chuckles, and smothered giggles. Ron thought he should have been offended, if not for the relief flooding within him, drowning anything else.

"Send her back, send her back," Bill laughed softly. Ron heard the soft sound of skin against fabric, and thought that his eldest brother might have slapped his thigh as he reminisced. "Send her back! Ron used to yell. 'She's broken! She's missing bits! I'll be damned if I'll have a faulty sister!'"

The others chortled at a low volume, presumably in respect for the solemn air.

"Did they punish him, for swearing?" Ginny wanted to know.

Charlie scoffed. "They punished Bill, for teaching him to swear."

"I reckon Ron found that fair," Fred laughed.

"I didn't think so," Bill muttered, but with a smile in his tone.

"At least he hadn't laughed, when dad put you in the corner," George reasoned.

"Unlike the pair of you," Charlie pointed out. Fred recalled the concurring memories with glee.

"What time is it, Ginny?" George asked.

"Five minutes later to the last time I've told you."

"Help him with the math," Bill advised when George only made an impatient noise. "Don't make George think; it's cruel."

"Eleven thirty seven, you moron," Ginny sighed.

"You know, you can't spell moron without Ron," Fred remarked fondly. "Well, you can, but then it would just be 'mo,' and I've been told that has a different connotation–"

"Ron never laughed at me, you know," George began with a wistful sigh.

"Oy," Charlie corrected, mock sternly, "it's all well and good to remember Ron fondly. No need to make up lies. Ron laughed at you loads of times."

"If you'd let me finish," George began threateningly, and Ron heard some scuffling. He was faintly alarmed to hear something fall and shatter on the floor. "Any how, Ron did not laugh at me when mum was teaching us how to read."

"Which is miraculous," Ginny agreed, "considering you were...what? Ten, when you finally mastered the alphabet?"

"Careful with your words, Ginny my dear," George warned her lazily. "The journey outside that window and to the garden is very long and painful."

"Wonderful notion," Charlie declared. "Honour one sibling's death by threatening the life of another. Keep this up, and you'll be celebrating your own life, George."

"You speak as if he doesn't praise himself on a daily basis," Bill chuckled.

"You speak as if you didn't set the rest of us a good example of self-admiration," Fred argued.

"Can we please let the most skilled orator speak?" George wanted to know impatiently. There were a few exaggerated beseeches to continue, and George complied. "Any how, I believe it was our parents' fault I had so much trouble. Naming me George. It's very misleading to any young child. Of course I thought the letter G made a 'jah' sound."

His very serious and miserable admission caused an uproarious reaction, hoots of laughter and delighted clapping echoing in the tiny chamber.

"I remember!" Charlie said over his gasps. "Now I remember! For days, you went about reading 'Jood day!'"

"And 'En-jland!'" added Bill, who, by the sounds of it, was suffering an asthma attack.

"Jod save the queen," Fred guffawed.

Even Ginny, who had been far too young to remember any of George's mistakes, was giggling hysterically, and pointed out that she had had very little trouble differentiating the two letters. George ignored her logic with a sniff and, being too used to jokes to be seriously injured by their laughter, only continued woefully.

"Yes, it was a very hard time in my life. If not for mum and alcohol, I might have never survived it. Also, I very much appreciated Ron's understanding of my suffering. Not once had he even smiled at my mistakes."

Outside, Ron thought hard as Percy bit his knuckles, trying to stifle his laughter. _I was two!_ He thought. _Of course I hadn't laughed! I didn't know how to read!_

"Mind you," Fred chimed in, "Ron was three–"

"Two," Charlie corrected.

"Two years old at the time, so I highly doubt he knew what a book was, much less how to properly read one."

"Where is Percy?" Ginny wanted to know. "It feels odd to have the laughing continue for so long, without somebody to depress the whole room."

"At your service," Percy called, stepping through the door. Ron barely had enough to time to dart to the shadowed side as his elder brother entered. Percy bade Ron an imploring glance as he walked away, but Ron only shook his head.

"It's all right Perce," Charlie cajoled, "you're here now. No need to fear the dark."

Percy turned away from the seemingly empty landing, and faced his brothers with an air of dissatisfaction. Behind him, the door slowly creaked to a near close, as Ron's unseen fingers gently pushed it from behind. Percy did not have a chance to speak, for as soon as he took another step closer, George spoke once again.

"Ginny–"

"Oh here," Ginny sighed.

Ron scooted slightly, so that he could peer between the narrow space where the door hinged to the frame.

"It don't fit," George complained. "Why can't you be a good little sister and just answer me every time I ask you?"

"It's a little past a quarter til," Charlie answered for their youngest sibling. "Why do you keep asking?"

"I..."

"What would you say to Ron," Percy suddenly asked soberly, finding himself a seat on the bed. "What would you say to Ron, if he were here?"

_That git_, Ron thought with a frown. He was baiting him, and the rotten bastard knew it.

"You owe me five sickles," Fred laughed.

Ron saw Charlie give Fred a solid strike to his arm.

"Ow. I was just kidding! It was three sickles."

"I'd say," Bill began after some thought, face set in uncharacteristic solemnity, "I'd say 'Welcome home.'"

The others looked at the eldest's earnest expression, and abruptly dropped all joviality. Ron saw Percy send a worried look to the nearly open door, and he silently begged his older brother to say nothing.

"I'd say that I miss him," Charlie admitted, looking down at his hands.

Ginny looked to Percy, as if they were following chronological order, but her elder brother appeared heavily fascinated by the exit. She spoke up with a tremulous tone.

"I'd thank him. I'd thank him, for being...for–"

"Best little brother ever," Fred commented thoughtfully. "Only one I ever had, mind you, but still. He was very good at it."

Ron watched the dim scene with mounting embarrassment. All of a sudden, he hadn't known why he had stalled for so long. He could not rediscover the silly motivation of avoiding this confrontation. Looking at his brothers and sister, cloaked in the orange glow of a few, short candles–the wax of which, Ron noticed with little pleasure, was dripping on his comic books–Ron could not fathom anybody ever fearing the friendliness of the Weasley clan. They were too good for any sort of reproach, and any sort of suspicion.

There Bill sat, against his headboard, lolling about as if the pain hadn't hounded him during the dead of night. As if he hadn't left the bank so many times around lunch, for fear of showing tears to the judgmental goblins. He was the oldest, the most experienced, the one Ron always thought about asking for any little question, even if there was no real reason to believe that Bill had any experience with the matter. Once, Ron had asked him where stars came from, and Bill, being only twelve, was not quite certain of the answer. But he responded with a lengthy explanation any way, and drew even pictures of the magic cauldron from which the bright twinkles were nightly poured out. He saw himself as the caretaker of them all, even if mum sometimes declared that an army could not handle her children. He thought that their well being was his responsibility, and nothing–not age, not distance, and not war–was allowed to take that burden away from him.

"I'd ask him if he remembered all the things we've talked about tonight," Bill said in a measured voice, words easily mistaken for calm if not for the unnatural shine in his lowered gaze. Idly, his fingers danced along the logo on his threadbare bed sheet. "If not, I'd cheerfully remind him of all his mortifying moments," he added with a forceful smile to the rest of his family.

Next to him was Charlie, laying back on the bed, interlocked fingers pillowing his head as he stared at the Chudley Cannons poster. "Oh, you know Ron. He'd bluster and swear, pretend that none of it happened...but he'd laugh a bit too. He was a good sort."

Once, when he had foolishly believed such rankings possible, Ron had once picked Charlie as his favourite brother. He was brilliant, that Charlie. He was just as busy as Bill, but at least he seemed to have an excuse. He was so...so _cool_. The kind of man Ron always wanted to be. True, Bill had the hair and the earring...but Charlie had the skills. Charlie had been able to do all sorts of things with very little trouble at all, while Ron blundered and stumbled through the simplest of tasks. Sometimes, when he believed there was very little chance of him being a very good wizard, Ron would observe Charlie–who led the Gryffindors to Quidditch glory, who faced danger as if he knew not the meaning of the word–and remember that they possessed the same blood and the same parents. Then he would decide that there was some hope for him after all.

But he didn't know how to grieve, which Ron found strange. Grieving came naturally to anybody with a heart, Ron had reasoned when he had caught glimpses of Charlie's sadness. Sometimes Charlie would be doing the most mundane tasks–taming a dragon, washing his hands, penning a letter–when a wave of pure grief would catch him by surprise. There would be some brutal repression on Charlie's part as he angrily wiped away tears, but it would be badly done. The faulty wall Charlie had built around his sadness was worn and reluctant, waiting for the next opportunity to catch Charlie Weasley unawares.

"He was good to me," Ginny murmured distractedly. She sat on the floor, on the wall opposite of her elder brothers, and she flipped idly through one book. Ron noticed, with some confusion, how she kept his bookmark exactly where he had left it. "He tried his hardest. He tried–" Ginny shook her head, and looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. "He tried to be all of you at once, which is just silly, but there's Ron for you. He wanted to be my whole family when we were at school. He wanted to take care of me wholly and completely, make sure that nothing could ever hurt me. Even threatened Harry for me, did you know that?" she asked them with a bright eyed laugh. "He did, just because he didn't want me to ever cry." Ginny swallowed thickly, but still could not keep the odd hoarse quality out of her throat. "But," she said, forcing herself to sound more sensible and lighthearted, "if he wanted to ensure that, he should have never left."

Ron stepped back, and dazedly let his hand fall to the door knob. _Why did she speak like that? _he wondered. As if speaking of the impossible? It's what big brothers did for little sisters. Why did Ginny laugh like it was not so logical for Ron to want to protect her from every hurt in the world?

Ginny was a bit like a foreign creature. That was how Ron regarded her, during her first few months in the world. He hadn't understood why he wasn't allowed to do all the things that his elder brothers had been allowed to do to him. He was not to strike her, and he was not to tease her, and he was not to grapple her to the ground. At first, Ron had believed that he had been gypped. Rudely and unfairly gypped. Why was it that everybody else got a little brother to perform experiments on, and handle roughly? Why was it that he was cursed with a little sister? A hopeless, delicate, smelly girl?

But girls turned out to be a decent species. For when Ron had a fever, and the others stomped around like inconsiderate, unruly buffoons, intensifying his headaches, Ginny played the assistant nurse when mum left the sick room. Ginny would hand him biscuits–even when he didn't want any. She would force tepid tea–it wouldn't do to leave her unattended with hot tea–down his throat. She would wrap him in bandages until he resembled a mummy–even when there were no injuries. Still, Ron preferred her company than his brothers whenever he happened to fall ill. Even when she squealed like mad at the sight of his sick in the bucket next to the bed. She was an acceptable sort of sister, so of course Ron wished to shield her from every scrape, bruise, and heartache in the world. She was his _sister_.

"I wouldn't apologise," Percy suddenly said, making Ron pause with confusion. Why the hell was Perce talking, knowing who was outside the door? "I wouldn't apologise, but I'd explain. Of why I am, why I do–you have to be something, in this family," he said in one breath. "I learned as much as I did and aimed to please the way I did only because I had to be something."

Ron gingerly stepped closer and peered around the door. He found the rest of his siblings just as caught off guard as he felt. The tears that threatened to fall from his sister and his brothers' eyes dried for the time being as Percy spoke haltingly.

"I'm not strong, and I'm not charming, and I'm not funny. But you have to be something, as a Weasley and as an older brother, you have to be _something_. Fred and George were just getting old enough to ask questions, and then Ron was born–whom I didn't want to begin with. I thought that I had to be somebody, somebody that younger brothers would turn to, because well–we're dusty, us Weasleys. You've got to be somebody, so that you don't fade with the second hand clothes. If you're not somebody, then...then...then you just become what they say you are. Worthless. I didn't want Ron to think that of me. He wasn't the prime reason for my past actions, but it was one of them. I just wanted to set a good example for you four."

He was addressing George, Fred, and Ginny. He was speaking as if the missing child was present. Ron frowned, understanding but not understanding his logic. _Be somebody?_ he thought to himself. Did Percy–for all his wisdom and all his books and all his studying–not know that being a brother was already being a "somebody" in itself?

"You would have done just as well as a tester," Fred told him, unfolding and then folding his legs in a different manner from beside Ginny. He nodded slightly, to show he understood and appreciated Percy's somber words. But Fred and George were the type to grieve through smiles, and so Fred gave a hinting smirk as he said the words now. "Prank testers don't necessarily have to be smart. Just, you know, breathing. You're a fine breather of a man, Perce."

"Shut up." Percy tried to frown, but could not fight away a small smile from his lips.

"You're welcome." He stretched his arms, not seeing but then not caring as one limb slightly bonked Ginny's nose. She slapped him away and glared. "Here we are then. Saying all the things that we hoped he understood before he died. Saying all the things that we assumed we'd have later opportunities to tell him, when we outgrew childish shyness and adolescent pride. Here we are, hoping that Ron could hear us from wherever he is."

"I honestly can't imagine Ron in heaven," Ginny murmured. "I mean, no offense to him but...they'd make him stop swearing, wouldn't they? There must be some sort of rule about that."

"I like to think everyone has their own special editions of heaven," Charlie offered idly. "Ron's heaven is probably a place where the Cannons win every hour, his robes are spanking new, no one reprimands him for every offensive oath, and a Hermione-faced angel recommends books to read. I mean, there's obviously more to do with a Hermione-faced angel, but one must show some decorum in heaven."

"Not to mention that he'd have Scabbers as just a rat, and no more," Bill added. "Ron really did like that thing."

"I'll buy him one," George decided after some silent rumination. "I'll buy him a new rat. What time is it, Ginny?"

"Oh for Merlin's sake! Why are you so time obsessed tonight?"

"Don't harp on him," Charlie advised, "your brothers are a strange lot, Ginny. If some of them show their grief through the hands of a clock, then so be it."

"No," George protested, and bolted to his feet. Ron slowly opened the door a bit wider, and viewed his elder brother pace before the uncomprehending eyes of his other siblings. "No, that's not it! Are you sure you're watch isn't fast, Ginny?"

"I don't think so; Percy just gave it to me for Christmas," Ginny answered, too puzzled to offer a snarky comment.

"Oh, did you steal it, Perce?" Fred asked innocently.

"No! As if I would ever–"

"It can't be midnight," George argued desperately. "That would mean a new day!"

Ron saw that Ginny turned her head slightly, for she had noticed the sluggish movement of the door.

"If you want, you can start the new day at sunrise," Charlie offered helpfully.

Bill's mouth open slightly, to question why he was behaving so strangely, when he sat up a bit stiffer as the entrance grew wider.

"No, no! I'm fairly certain it doesn't work that way," George fretted anxiously, running his hands through his hair. "No, it has to be today–"

"Yesterday," Ginny corrected.

"No, _today! _The day is not over!"

"George," Percy began, eyeing the timid newcomer with some impatience, "George, there's no need to–"

"But it was today," George argued helplessly. "It's supposed to–"

He was cut off by a strangled, female noise, and George paused in his pacing to look down at Ginny. "Are you all right?" he asked, growing panic interrupted by fraternal worry.

Ginny did not answer, leaving George to follow the direction of her gaze.

Ron, avoiding their eyes, chewed on his lip as he quietly shut the door behind him. It wasn't until he heard the click of the lock that he looked up, and stared at them with a nervous, apologetic expression.

"I wish I had something witty to say," he said after a swallow.

His hands were shaking, and Ron rubbed his palms up and down his thighs as the sight of him slowly registered in his brothers' minds. It was also difficult to breathe, Ron noticed, and tried to inhale deeply as Charlie practically fell off the bed, and Ginny stumbled to her feet.

"Say something," Ron asked hopefully. "Anything, please."

All were standing now, but none had made a single movement. Ron knew in his heart that they didn't fear him, and that they loved him, so he couldn't fathom why they weren't–

"Oof," he wheezed as one little girl tackled him, causing him to crash into the door. "Ouch, Ginny, my back–"

"_RON!_" George yelled at the top of his lungs, seemingly flying to his brother's side, also engulfing him in a hug. He was echoed by their other brothers, most of whom had yelled out his name like an ecstatic exaltation.

Ron's ability to breathe wasn't at all improved by the pair's enthusiasm, but he found it wasn't so important. He looked down–or at least, attempted to. His jaw connected rather painfully with the top of somebody's head, and Ron spent the next few moments opening and closing his mouth, hoping nothing would swell.

Something wet was falling onto his neck, and he shifted uncomfortably. "Don't cry, Ginny."

"I'm not!" Ginny responded in a voice too loud to be sensible.

"Well, you're heartless then," George sniffled, hugging his little brother a bit tighter, "Of course I'm crying. I haven't seen you for two bloody years..."

Ron unsteadily raised one arm to pat one of them on the back when that appendage was harshly jammed back against him. Charlie had decided to hug him as well. Had a lot of weight, that Charlie.

"Oh Merlin," he groaned as the burden of three siblings relied heavily on him and the door. "Oh Merlin, I'm dying."

"Never," Charlie declared bossily, stepping back and giving Ron two hearty pats on the head. "You're not allowed to die, Ron, because I say so."

"You're sounding suspiciously Percy-ish," Ron told him. Then, he added, "Can somebody help me, please? I think I've forgotten what my lower body feels like."

"And that's where the most important body part is," Fred remarked solemnly, and set about prying the two from his little brother's side.

Ginny, though apparently deliriously happy, had enough presence of mind to pinch his brother's ear for his last comment.

"Ouch, what? I mean the toes!"

They were all grinning like idiots, Ron noticed, and he had the sneaking suspicion he was as well. George and Ginny had shakily stepped aside as Bill came forward to stand a few inches before him. Without warning, Ron felt his head grabbed and jerked upright.

"Have you been brawling?" Bill demanded as Ron struggled to wriggle out of his grasp. His head was jerked in the other direction, and winced as his eldest brother poked at one bruise with outrageously ungentle fingers.

"No, I swear," Ron lied, slapping ineffectually at his brother's hands.

"Liar," Bill sighed affectionately, sliding his hand from Ron's jaw to the back of his head. Before Ron could react, he felt himself jerked forward and something moist and soft–

"Did you just _kiss _me?" Ron asked with a horrified yell, scrambling away and wiping his forehead with increasing hysteria. "In front of them?" He gestured to the twins, one of whom was looking absurdly pleased by the show of affection. "You _never _kiss me!"

"I know," Bill said with a smile, reaching forward to embrace the spastic Ron in a brief hold. "And I regretted that, after you left. So there. Now I don't feel so bad."

"Well I do," he replied, feeling that his reputation as a man was horribly crippled. Though no remnants of the kiss remained, Ron continued to wipe at his forehead. "Blech, Bill! Do you understand? _Blech!_"

"You haven't hugged Ron yet, Percy," Ginny pointed out with an encouraging shove.

Percy, who had somehow ended up in the back of the small troop, looked inquisitively at him.

"Do you want another hug, Ron?" he asked skeptically.

"Rather you didn't, Perce," Ron said with relief. "At least, not again. You've surprisingly a lot of muscles on you."

"It's the glasses," George mock-whispered, "they give him confidence. And ugliness. But confidence as well."

"Well then, you," persistent Ginny redirected her attention to Fred. "Go on."

Their siblings parted like a military welcome, creating a small pathway between the untouched two. Fred uneasily stepped closer to his youngest brother, unable to meet his eyes. In fact, he continued in his steps, until his mouth hovered near Ron's ear.

"You understand, Ron?" he asked in a low, gruff voice. Beneath the surface indifference ran a true, sincere fear that Ron would not. That Ron would not comprehend his reluctance, and that the only reason their bodies stood so close yet neither reached for one another was this solid, immovable anger. He hated this fear, this unknowing, but did not want to make the first approach. He did not want to wrap his arms around his little brother, only to be rejected. It was up to Ron, to show how things stood between them.

Ron stared down at his older brother, absorbing the droop of his lip, the defiant thrust of his chin, and the tense, twitchy demeanor that possessed his stocky body. Under other circumstances, no. No, he did not understand the rejection of one's own brother. He did not understand the violent refusal of one's own family. He did not understand how one could hurt so much, and not want to find the cure.

But this moment was not under other circumstances. Ron had lived too much to maintain grudges. Ron had died for too long to perpetuate pain. Ron loved his brothers, beyond the paltry obstacles of misunderstandings.

"Yeah, Fred," he answered softly, lifting his arms and gave Fred a hug. It was an awkward embrace, but, to be fair, Ron was never one to show such physical affection to his family. And it was awkwardly returned, for Fred was attempting to wipe at his eyes without notice, all the while giving Ron a non-life threatening embrace, in pity for his ribs. The relief stole his breath away, making him wonder how Ron managed to know what the hell he had been talking about, and how Ron managed to forgive him any way. He hadn't been at peace on this day, like his brothers, and he hadn't been anxiously awaiting, like George. When he had awoken this morning, uneasiness trickled over him when he wasn't on guard, but that was to be expected. Fred had been discomforted ever since he had learned that Ron was possibly alive. He suspected that George had been as well; for what brother could live happily, contentedly, knowing that one family was somewhere, lost in unrest?

"I missed you," Ron said now, and firmly pushed Fred away. "Well, not you in particular. It was more in a collective sense–oof."

Once again, one pestering little sister was the cause of the "oof," for she had pushed Fred aside to wrap her arms around Ron's neck once more. It was hell on his back, for she was determined to throw her entire weight upon him, and was a great deal shorter. Ron felt as if there were an eight stone chain hanging from his neck, and he frantically worked to undo her locked hands.

And his arms hurt, his back felt as if fire were running up and down his spine, and all the things that might have healed properly were now being pressured in the most unhealthy way possible. Yet Ron could not stop the feeling of contentment flooding within him. His appearance had released the unmitigated joy his family had been longing to celebrate for two years. And their faces–their worn, tired, happy faces–were the key to his own lock. For now he felt replenished, and not so lacking. Wildly ecstatic thoughts accompanied the wildly ecstatic mood.

_Maybe_, he began to ponder beatifically, _maybe everything's going to be just fine. Maybe my luck will turn around. Maybe_

"Those wankers!" she exclaimed giddily, making Ron fear for the fate of his ears. "Those complete bastards! Why couldn't they tell me? Why didn't anybody tell me?"

"Sorry," George muttered, assisting Ron in his unlocking mission. "Secrecy was a must."

"I'm sorry, of whom are we speaking?" Charlie demanded, grabbing Ginny about the waist and pulling her away. Ron stumbled. It was surprising to them all, just how much strength she put into welcoming him back. Then again, they were always being surprised by Ginny, Ron remembered.

"Who else?" Bill sighed. He was the eldest and the smartest, and resolved the trapped-Ron matter by tickling Ginny so that she released Ron to defend herself. "Hermione and Harry?"

Ron nodded as he rubbed at his neck, encouraging the blood to flow through the constricted veins once more. Nobody asked them where they were, and Ron felt a tiny bit of appreciation for that. They were satisfied with him. A few were still crying, though none quite so unashamed by the act as Ginny. Most were still looking at him as if afraid he'd fall to pieces. In fact, as soon as Ginny had been safely distanced from him, Charlie laid a harsh hand on Ron's elbow and propelled him to the bed. Before Ron could protest, he found himself blinded in one eye.

"What the hell are you doing?" Ron nearly shouted, pushing the illuminated tip of Charlie's wand away.

"That eye's okay."

"Why are you checking my eyes?" He wanted to know as he tried to keep his left one tightly shut. A yelp tore out of his mouth as Charlie, in an effort to open it, dug his callused thumb into the socket. "Shit!"

"Ron, be reasonable," Percy advised as their youngest brother scrambled away from the concerned siblings. There was no escape, however, for Ron quickly found himself against the headboard. "You've been missing for who knows how long. Of course we'll check you for injuries. It's only because Ginny's here that we don't strip you."

"Wow, never thought I'd hear Perce say anything about stripping," Fred commented.

"Charlie has the most experience with injuries," Bill added in a sensible tone as Ron's blindness was completed. The young Weasley blinked dizzily as colourful blobs replaced the faces of his family in his vision, while Charlie informed them of the proper pupil dilation of their youngest brother. "He'll know what to do."

"Couldn't we just have mum look me over?" Ron asked, slapping Bill's hands away from the cut above his eye. "She's far more gentle. And sensible. Honestly, I never even mentioned anything wrong with my eyes!"

"She's out," Ginny explained.

"Out?" Ron repeated, somewhat insulted. "She and dad are out on the town, tonight of all nights?"

"You're receiving another award, Ron," Fred informed him, squeezing through the brothers to give him a congratulatory handshake.

"They said we could sit this one out," George added, giving him a hearty pat on the back. Ron coughed with the force, and sent the twin a baleful glare.

"Egad, he's ill!" Fred declared, slapping a rather painful palm onto Ron's forehead. "Quick, fetch...fetch...fe..." He stopped, and sat beside Ron on the bed. "Who takes care of things when mum's not here?"

It was decided that now was not the time to think of such impossible scenarios. "Should we owl them?" Ginny asked sensibly. Percy opened his mouth to answer when Fred beat him to it.

"They'll be home any second. Wouldn't it be nice for them to return home, and find the actual receiver of the posthumous award alive and well?" Now that Ron had shown no animosity towards him, the twin was as jubilant as the rest of them. Ron would have commented on the loony, fluffy smile on his face, but feared bursting his bubble.

Then Ron found himself bombarded with questions. Nobody was overly concerned with his discomfort, and more than one brother gave him an irritated shove when he hesitated in questioning.

"So where were you then?" Fred chirped.

"Er..."

Shove. Bank-working ought not to have given Bill those muscles.

"I don't know the place, really. Kinda like sleeping."

"A coma?" George asked.

"Well..."

Shove. No fair. Strength was all well and good when dealing with scaly, reptilian giants, but really. Not for little brothers.

"I guess you could call it that."

"When did you return?" Ginny queried.

"This morning." Ron tilted his head, studying one brother with tardy concentration. "Where'd all your hair go, Charlie?"

"You've no right to ask questions. Now. Where did you return?"

"Hogwarts."

"Why did you take so long coming over?" Percy now wanted to know pointedly.

"Um, well, I thought–"

Shove.

"What was that for?" he demanded. "I was answering the question!"

"I sensed hesitation in the near future," Charlie explained defensively.

"Let's not badger him," Bill decided with finality, and Ron let out a sigh of relief. "We'll ask him all the questions we'd like tomorrow morning, at breakfast. All right then, Ron?"

"Yeah," Ron responded bleakly, and then smiled appreciatively at his eldest brother. Bill smiled back. Charlie smiled at the pair, and then Percy could not help but grin, causing Fred and George to–

"When are you going to leave my room?" Ron wanted to know impatiently. "I'd like to change. These are Harry's clothes."

"Really?" Ginny asked with interest. "Pants as well?"

"Why you even want to know is beyond me," Ron muttered. He sent them all another questioning glance. "Well? The door's over there."

George fidgeted, and reached forward to ruffle his hair. "The thing is Ron," he said, painfully mussing the red locks so much that Ron winced. "We haven't seen you in two years. You think that we're going to leave you alone after just one night?"

"Er..._yes_," he answered with a furrowed brow. "Yes, please?"

"Let's have a sleep over!" Ginny suggested excitedly, grabbing Ron's hand and squeezing it as if he threatened to escape. Ron tried to subtly slip from her grasp, and was only rewarded with a brighter smile and a tighter grip. "We'll grab a few pillows and blankets, and take the bed out of the room, and we'll all sleep on the floor and talk and talk–"

"Well I'm ready for bed," Bill announced, patting Ginny's head with a wink. "We'll put guards outside his window, if you're so afraid, George."

George, who had been uncomfortable with the thought of leaving Ron, now appeared verily terrified with staying for the slumber party. "No, no," he laughed, clapping his hands over Ron's ears with a brotherly affection. "If I'm sleeping with anyone tonight, she'll be–"

"George," Fred warned, pointing surreptitiously to Ginny.

"What? I was talking about the store. Honestly, Fred, I worry for you."

The twins shook Ron's hands, and the youngest felt somebody pinch his nose and another twist his ear before the pair vanished from sight with an obnoxiously loud _crack_. George had been lying, they soon learned, for then a corresponding _crack _was heard somewhere below them.

"Would anybody be able to tell the difference," Ron wondered aloud, "If they happened to splinch onto one another?" Nobody answered his question, which Ron found a bit irksome. What was the point of being the centre of attention if nobody actually listened to a word you said? Fleetingly, he wondered how Harry ever managed.

"It'll be a full breakfast again," Ginny beamed, engulfing him once more in a suffocating hug before Charlie bodily carried her away. "I won't mind setting the table."

"Meaning?" Ron asked Percy for clarification.

"Meaning," Bill began, clapping Ron's shoulder as he trudged from the room, "that she missed you terribly Ron. We all did. So don't you dare show up late for breakfast."

Ron winced, rotating his shoulder and gingerly fingering his worsened bruises. With a sidelong glance, he belatedly realised Percy was still in the room.

"I've two years' worth of Christmas presents," Percy told him sternly, approaching his bed.

"Crap," Ron sighed, trying to quell his smile. "And all I have is pocket lint."

Percy nodded, and sent a superior nod to his youngest brother. "Then I'll expect that pocket lint exquisitely wrapped by breakfast."

Ron frowned slightly, wondering if Percy had just made a joke. And, if his elder brother had, Ron wondered the fate of the world now that the impossible had just occurred. He looked about the small, empty room with a shrug. "I would have thought that they'd like to see when mum and dad came home. To see their expressions."

Percy looked around as well, and shrugged in a nearly identical manner. "I confess I'm curious. And eager. As we all are. But, I suppose that some things are best done alone."

"Wow. You know, you could have used much bigger words than that," Ron pointed out suspiciously, beginning to doubt this was his brother at all. The clues of a clone were all present: embraces, concern, jokes, succinct phrasing...

"True. But you've just returned, Ron, and I'd hate for your head to explode because of my colossal intellect." With that, Percy resettled his glasses, which had been upset by the embraces, and walked towards the door. Just before he shut it, Ron thought he heard a small chuckle. "Welcome home, Ron."

"Glad to be here, Perce," he answered as he heard it lock.

_Now_, he thought. _Time to get out of Harry's pants._

xoxox

_To call it the "earlier" part of his stay would imply that time played some role in the place. And so, Ron had very little idea how long he had been missing. It might have been a year or a day in living world. But here, eternity was merely a blink of an eye._

_So when reverberating, gut wrenching sobs began to gallop around and through him, Ron was utterly bewildered. So far, his efforts had been solely focused upon seeing something, anything, in this vast colourless landscape. And that endeavor had yielded nothing, except for a great deal of squinting. It wasn't until he both felt and heard the shattering sadness that Ron realised he had been lingering in utter silence._

_It was awful, this noise. It was sheer and utter torture. Ron did not know who it was nor why she cried, but oh god! He wanted to help! Anything and everything just to stop that woman's tears._

_Then, as if she felt his spiking fear, she halted, reining in one sob so awkwardly and abruptly that it stumbled, half formed and ugly, out of her lips before she held her breath. Muffled whimpers of a hindered soul attempted to escape her mouth, clamped tight, but she summoned unworldly strength to quell it. _

_He appreciated that. Though it must have hurt her to oppress the tears so forcefully, she did so without hesitation. Very selfless, that woman._

_Ron paused in his appreciation, belatedly realising just whose anguish he was feeling._

_Very selfless, that Molly Weasley._

"_Mum," he had tried to yell. "Mum!" _

Oh fuck_, he thought as he searched blindly in the fog. _Oh fuck, if somebody hurt her... _The thoughts broiled and simmered into a black, churning hatred for this somebody who only possibly existed. Ron, despite his lack of knowledge of location and escape, was quite prepared to kill this son of a bitch who dared make his mum cry. _

If somebody dared do a thing to my mother...

"_Ron?" _

_He felt a wild shudder of hope and surprise glide beneath his feet, and Ron stumbled. His arms flailed out instinctively, and were caught on errant waves of guilt._

"_Ron?"_

"_Yeah, mum," he answered as loud as his lungs would allow. "Hold on, mum, I'm coming!"_

_Just where the hell were his brothers, any how? Ron wondered with furious worry. Just where the hell was his family, when mum was bawling like this? He made a note to speak to them, and ask them what was so important that it took them away from comforting the most wonderful woman on earth._

_The plane jerked violently, and shifted around him at a dizzying rate. Though there were no boundaries, Ron could feel something solidifying and growing in an upward spiral, surrounding him and coating him with invisible smiles._

"_Ron! Ron! You're alive?"_

_Absurd woman, his mother. Ron shook his head and rolled his eyes to the darkened skies, as if asking the melancholy heavens, What are we to do with such a silly being?_

"_Of course I am, mum, honestly."_

_An "Are you mad?" sat on the tip of his tongue, but, in a broken weepy mess or not, Molly Weasley would have most likely boxed his ears for such disrespect._

"_I knew it!" The exclamation rippled through the entire, amorphous cavern with blinding triumph. "I knew it! I knew it, in my heart..." With each victorious, relieved word, Ron felt himself elevated to sharp, untamed peaks of joy. He barely had time to catch his breath before the entire place trembled as the darkness slowly crept upon them._

"_Quick, Ron," she pled. "Quick, Ron, come back to me."_

"_Of course I will, mum," Ron replied, hoping the exaggerated serenity in his tone would rub off on the woman. Merlin! Who knew satisfied housewives could grow so incredibly mad?_

"_Then, come please! Please, Ron, don't leave me again!"_

_But the shadows swam closer still, and Ron had no idea how to obey his mother's instructions. How could he come to her, when he did not even know how he arrived here? Still, he had to try. Ron figured it was best to try, or his mum would find one way or another to punish him._

"_Please, Ron, don't–"_

_That wasn't a sob, was it? She was laughing so unabashedly a few moments ago..._

"_No, Ron! No, you have to come with me. You have to be my son again."_

Again?_ Ron repeated, dumbstruck by the paralysing sadness in her words. Suddenly, the aura of his mother began to ebb rapidly, abandoning Ron to the dim cold. _

"_No, Ron, please," she begged once more, as if she too sensed the unwanted withdrawal. "If I promise to let you swear all you want, and make only your favourite foods, and never ever yell at you once more–"_

"_Mum," Ron interrupted, the one word manifesting all the hurt and fear assailing him. He didn't understand! He didn't understand! How could she say "again," like that, as if he had ever stopped being her youngest boy? Why did she attempt to bribe him, as if such materialistic things could ever equate his love for her? "Mum, please," he requested in a low tone, so that these murky monsters could not sense him, "please help me–" It was as if he were five again, calling for that almighty, imperious mum whenever the shadows of his room frightened him. She would save him, because she always had._

_But, now, she would not hear him. All that was Molly Weasley was quickly draining away from this void, so that the last moments spent were filled with desperate, hysterical shouts._

"_No, no, no–please Ron! Say you'll be there when I open my eyes! Promise me you will! I couldn't bear it, Ron, I can't bear it any more–"_

So he had promised her, because that's what good sons did. They obeyed their mothers, even if it was beyond their power to complete the given task. They bit back the cries of fear, the requests for aid, because they knew that it was selfish to plague their mums with their own, silly troubles.

He did not know that she would awaken in the Burrow, eyes bright with miraculous hope and bliss, only to find an empty bedroom. He did not know how she would race and run up the stairs, to the narrow fifth landing, and search Ron's room from floorboards to ceiling. He did not know how his father spent days away from the war-troubled Ministry, to brokenly explain to his wife once more how their youngest son had died, and how there were witnesses, and how they could not find the body.

He did not know until a few, flitting dreams later. He did not know until the occasional reliving nightmare told all he had to know. He learned, when he felt the delicate reconstructing of his mum's heart–this time remade without the misleading "hallucinations"–that it was best to stay concealed behind the dusky veils. For to present himself would only cause problems, and unkept promises. Simply because he was no longer up and breathing was no reason to bog others down as they continued their lives. It was only when the numbness threatened to dominate his soul that Ron deliberately sought others' minds. But never hers. No, never hers.

Yet when Hermione began to be featured in his loved ones' dreams, Ron found that he could not look away. He had avoided her, not because of their rift, but because of his need to cement that rift. Ron knew that, although he had stalwartly refrained from interfering with other's subconscious fantasies, if he spied upon Hermione's mind, there would be no hesitation on his part to step forward and claim her as his. So, he found satisfaction with others' mention of her.

The Hermiones of the norm began to veer, however, from the images Ron loved. Without explanation, Ginny had dreamed of Hermione imprisoned and lost. His dad's nightmare had shown Hermione captured by secret Death Eaters. Mum had one strange notion of Hermione reuniting with her youngest son in heaven.

Obviously, something had to be done. There was scant information to go on, for his family slept less and less during the search. It was best that he gave them a nudge, indirectly. For Hermione's sake...though he would not lie and say that he had not enjoyed staring at her, sharing her wonderful mind, when he first contacted her. He could not help it. Even after the emptying effect of this world, the sight and feel of her made him forget all else.

It had been brief, their exchange, but it was enough. Ron would have spent the rest of his days in hell after that moment, for it meant that, even if his family did not know where she was, Hermione was certainly not imprisoned and not lost, not to mention alive and well.

And, though he should have been satisfied by her well being and her apparent happiness, the injustice had spurred him to act further, to contact Neville and have her found and Malfoy exposed. Though he hated to feel her tears, Ron despised more than anything the deception of her heart. It was understandable to Ron that Malfoy loved her; who would not love her? But it was inconceivable to Ron that Malfoy would hurt her to love her, for surely that was a wrong sort of love for his former fiancée.

Ron lay awake, staring up at the admirable–and, sadly, defeated–figures in his poster. He did not want to sleep. Sleep brought on things he did not want to see, feelings he did not want to endure. As he stared around the unchanging environment, Ron saw a brief flash outside his window. Even before Ron confirmed the arrival of his parents, he smiled in the darkness. Dad and mum were here. More hugs.

But they did not enter through the front door, which Ron took as a testament of how tired they were. Guilt stabbed at him briefly when he remembered that it was his fault, sort of. If he hadn't died, in a manner somehow befitting posthumous awards, then his parents would have no reason to be out at banquet dinners accepting these honours. Ron frowned as he threw off the covers and settled his bare feet on the cold floor. He resolved to make it up to them, somehow. Perhaps degnome the garden one hundred and ten percent, or something equally unenjoyable.

When he heard his parents pop into their chamber, Ron raced from his room, knowing how loud his foot steps seemed in the drowsy home. His feet _slap-slap_ped on the wooden floors, stinging a little with each step, but Ron did not slow. He slid as he made every turn, crashing his tender shoulders into the walls when he failed to halt in time, but Ron did not delay. It was rude thing to do, their mum always told them, to run amok while others were sleeping. Even now, as he neared their locked door, he heard his dad murmur with exhaustion:

"Perhaps we ought to write all the rules down, and then post it up somewhere."

"We tried that once. Somebody burned it," Molly tiredly reminded him.

"And Fred swears to this day that the unholy unfairness of it all made it burst into flames," Arthur remembered as he neared the door.

Ron raised one hand to knock, noting faintly how it was shaking violently but refusing to stop. Then he saw the knob turn slightly, and dropped his hand to his sides. This was it, this was where he'd finally comfort mum, show her that there was no reason to cry–

"What's the matter, Arthur?" he heard his mother ask softly and with some concern. "Open the door."

The knob had turned, of that Ron was very certain. But, instead of swinging open, the portal remained half way there.

"Mum," Ron wanted to say. "Dad," he wanted to cry out. But the words died in his throat, as he stood, petrified with fear. Why didn't dad open it? Was he afraid, tired? Did he sense him outside and wished to refuse any sort of midnight visit?

"I have...I have a queer feeling, Molly–" Arthur was answering slowly.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Molly sighed. He heard a thump on the floor and swift steps to the door.

_Oh fuck it Ron_, he told himself, irrationally fearing that his parents would hear him swear mentally. He had spent most of this day asking self-doubting questions, and, as usual, most of his suspicions had been wrong. Simply because he doubted every single relative and friend in the universe did not mean that every single relative and friend doubted him.

With that simplified logic in mind, Ron nodded sharply and opened the door himself. He apologised for hitting his father with the door, and then looked at his mother.

She hadn't changed. Mum wore her hair loose, the ends still tucked into the collar of her nightgown, as if she had just slipped it on. Her eyes were kind even when they were fatigued, and the slight lines around her mouth told him that she still laughed as much as she used to. She was a lovely woman, his mother. As a child, when she would tote him about the village, he would observe the other children being dragged about by their mothers and think proudly, _Nobody's mum is as pretty as mine._

And, luckily for all of them, she was just as lovely inside as well as out. He would not be crying now, not if she were cold and silly on the inside. He would not be reaching for her now, like a lost little boy, if she was not a good, warm spirit beneath the good, warm smile.

Ron stepped closer, not noticing how she evaded, and stared with a slightly dropped jaw. His mother hadn't changed! Not a bit!

Bill looked old, Charlie was bald, and Percy was making jokes...but his mother hadn't changed. Ginny was taller, Fred was angrier, and George was sadder...but his mother hadn't changed. Among the top three moments of his entire life, Ron decided that this was a strong candidate for number one.

Until she turned away.

Ron straightened, and dropped his outstretched arms. He was far too confused to be hurt. "Mum?"

He thought he saw her back, facing him. He thought he saw her walking away. But that couldn't be right, for she was Molly Weasley, wasn't she? She wasn't the type to turn away from her own children. He must have not been seeing right. "Mum," he repeated, stepping closer.

His breath caught, literally stopping his lungs as she simply walked away at a more rapid pace, settling her jerky, tense body on the bed.

He was seventeen, he reminded himself. He was seventeen, and nobody cried for their mothers at the mature age of seventeen.

And yet his bottom lip trembled, blatantly defying that well known rule. Heedless of the fear in her eyes, and ignoring the cries of his father, Ron quickly ran to his mother's side, trying desperately to peer into her eyes as her hair formed a hurtful curtain about her face.

"Mum," he pleaded with a strangled gasp, "Mum, it's me! It's me, Ron!" He tried to smile, but found he could not with the heavy freezing of his heart. Bewildered beyond words, his head shook, trying to clear away the hinting doubts.

_No, no!_ A small, disbelieving voice said in his mind. _No! __Not mum! Not mum, of all people! Perhaps, Harry, yes, because he was naturally suspicious...or Fred, because he was just afraid of being hurt...Not, mum, mum would love me without question, just as she always had–_

"Molly," Arthur said from behind, a hoarse laugh mingling with the word. "Molly, don't you see–"

"No," interrupted a worn, fierce voice from behind the red shield, "No, I don't. I've learned now, that what I see I don't truly see. It's my mind–"

"Mum," Ron let out in a half sob, falling to his knees before her slouching form. "Mum, don't say that!" Though she recoiled from his nearness, his hands darted forward any way, trying to hug her. More than an Unforgivable, more than the sight of Lawrence, more than the doubt of his brothers...that hurt, when she simply pushed his embrace away. It hurt more than anything Ron could remember.

"It's not a hallucination, Molly," Arthur told her excitedly, as he quickly approached the pair. "Molly, you're right, you've always been right–"

"It's..." Mrs. Weasley began in a terrified, teary whisper, "a _dream_." She lifted her head slightly, and lightly touched Ron's hair, her capable fingers tracing his lashes and nose gently. Ron saw a faint smile in the darkness, and returned it hopefully.

"It's a wonderful, cruel _dream_," she spoke softly. "I think it's my Ron and I think that you see him too...but then I'll awaken. And you won't be here."

Ron leaned into her rough palms, and quickly grasped her wrists to maintain contact. He might have hurt her, with a grip too strong, but could not think of anything else than forcing her, making her see him as he truly was.

"But I'm here, mum," he entreated desperately. He held the hands to his face as she struggled to break free. "Mum, I'm _here_."

She didn't want to see this war torn Ron. Molly had sat like this many times. Drowsily rising from bed, barely placing her feet in her slippers before a small, gangly boy tumbled against her, crying about shadows and monsters and spiders. She had sat, just like this, bending over his weeping face and wiping away the tears, promising a safe world for him. But she had broken her promise to the child Ron had once been, for it was the lack of safety that allowed him to run away, and out of her arms. Out of her arms and out of her world, leaving nothing behind but harsh illusions of what should have been.

"I'm _sorry_, mum," Ron now muttered with horrified fervor. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to break my promise, I didn't know that I would!" His voice broke as his volume grew, and Ron did not care. He had to fix this, he had to mend his mum's heart, because the thought of her hurting like this and denying him like this was too much to bear. It was a half life, Ron decided as he apologised and begged for forgiveness, it was to be a half life if his mother did not acknowledge him.

"Mum, please! You _have to _believe me. You have to know that I would never break my promise, that I love you, mum, and I'm sorry I left, and I wouldn't have, oh fuck, I would have never if I had known that you'd look at me like _that_, that you _wouldn't _look at me like that–"

The others arrived now, in rushed succession, as they heard his loud weeping. They stood, transfixed, at the door, and Ron did not care if they witnessed his tears, for no other reaction was possible with mum acting like this.

He released her hands now, but they did not leave his face. He did not notice the compliance, and only tried to hug her around her waist, as if he were the child that climbed into her lap and begged for stories. "Mum," he said now, voice dying, "mum, I'm sorry–"

"What promise?" she asked breathlessly, her hands running through his hair as if feeling him for the first time. "What promise, tell me."

Ron swallowed the lump in his throat with great difficulty, and looked up through the tears into the blurred sight of his mother's urgent expression. "The...the one where I said that I'd be there, when you woke up," he answered haltingly, hating how the hiccups impeded his answer. "I tried to follow you, I _swear _I did–"

"Because you thought you were alive," Molly finished gaspingly, tears overflowing as she rubbed the tears from his freckled cheeks, "just like I did. Just like I hoped. You thought you were alive, and you promised to be there when I opened my eyes."

His heart leaped to his throat, leaving him unable to say anything. Instead Ron nodded, and the deluge of relief that soothed his soul must have shone through his features. Molly looked down at her son and smiled, let out a shout of incoherent laughter, and hugged him closer, clutching every part of him to her as if he were newly born, and in need of maternal protection.

"My Ron," she wept softly as their family cautiously filled the room. "My Ron, my boy...my baby's home–"

_Number one_, Ron decided as he felt a rather forceful kiss on his forehead. Her hands tugged and pulled at his hair, attempting to force the locks into a decent, conventional style, and Ron laughed as she kissed his temple. _Number one moment in my entire life._

His knees ached, from kneeling for so long, and Molly encouraged him to get up, to sit on the bed, or to stand up so that she could hug him proper. But, for the longest while, Ron was contented to stay where he was. Resting his head on his mother's lap, listening to his family chatter up a storm of happy confusion around him.

_Number one._

Molly Weasley had changed mentally, at least, Ron reckoned as she began to gush nonsense. Asking him to forgive her, and the like. As if his mother ever needed forgiveness from _him_. If anything, Ron wished she would not clutch him so tightly, and give him another chance to apologise, for ever going away and making her cry like this.

His joints popped loudly when he was forced to stand, but such tiny pinpricks of pain were worth an embrace from his father. Ron saw that, he, too had been weeping, though not with the same force as his wife. No, Arthur's tears were the silent, modest type, and his father continued to smile and laugh in between the sniffles as if he had no idea that his eyes were leaking. While father and son showed their affection by trying to squeeze all the air from each other's bodies, the latter peeked open one eye.

Ron used to jump. To be seen by his father. Arthur was already a distracted man, so catching his notice while swimming in a sea of brothers required more effort than from his perpetually attentive mum. He used to jump, as a child, so that Arthur would spy his youngest son amongst the red haired army, and raise his eyebrows with false surprise, as if he had quite forgotten Ron had been born. Then he would place his large, strong hands beneath Ron's arms and swing him up into a silly embrace, making him feel as if all that practice of leaping into the air had been worth it.

Ron took up swearing, when he saw how animated his mum and dad became when Bill brought home a few choice words from school. Arthur tended to tune out the constant buzz of the Burrow, so when a shockingly rude word was delightedly shouted in Ron's young, childish voice, his father would snap to attention, regarding his baby boy with a new light. Then all of his father's attention would rest on him, making Ron feel that these long lectures and hidden amusement were worth it.

When infantile stunts and adolescent vulgarity would not catch his notice, Ron kept silent. He did not complain of his loneliness at school, of his shame of poverty, of his fears for his family and friends. And, when the opportunity to lament arose and Ron stepped back from it, he would catch his father looking at him with gentle appreciation. At those moments, Ron felt like a man. The frustration and the hurt of keeping all these violent emotions inside were worth it, when his father wordlessly admired him like that.

And at this moment, he felt like a child again. As his father's thin arms crushed him as if wishing to leash his soul and nail it to their worn, faded floor boards, Ron felt like a five year old who had jumped eagerly into Arthur's view, and was now enjoying the reward of such gravity-defying endeavors. Simultaneously, he felt like an adult. For his father had not said a word, not a single word, and Ron could feel the waves of appreciation rolling off of him like blinding tides. It had always been like that, between father and youngest son. They said nothing, but spoke volumes.

"Are you crying again?" he demanded of Ginny, breaking away from his father to envelop his little sister in a hug.

"No," she pathetically whimpered, scrubbing at her eyes. "I'm just yawning."

"Jeez, Ron," Fred spoke up in a thick voice, "Just because you return is no reason for us to go all girlish and weepy."

"It's not as if...It's not as if..." Bill cleared his throat, and suppressed the watery shudders that punctured his words. "It's not as if you're very special, or anything."

Ron was ready to verbally retaliate when he felt familiar, strong, plump arms trap him in another hug. He could not recall the last time his family had been so openly affectionate in such a short time. "Don't pick on Ron," Molly scolded, half laughing, half crying. "He's your baby brother."

Somehow, even after years of offering that flimsy excuse, Ron noticed it still worked. All the jabs and taunts were surrendered, so that his elder brothers and younger sister regarded him with loving eyes and silent mouths.

Percy rubbed at his eyes and knocked his glasses askew. "I've a feeling that nobody will be wanting sleep tonight."

Ron nodded. There was simply too much to be said, for them to retire to their chambers. There were arguments waiting to be fought, names to be called, loved ones to be hugged, and hearts to be repaired. Sleep was definitely not an issue.

And then Ron yawned.

Before he could even close his mouth, he found himself pushed and pulled, nearly quartered in his worried family's quest to get him to bed. Ron tried to protest, declare that he was not at all knackered, when another yawn interrupted his words, speeding the process along tenfold.

"Wait," he tried as they shoved him into his room. Arthur even rolled back the blanket, and Charlie bodily pushed him onto the mattress. "Wait," Ron yelped as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows, only to be roughly pressed down by Percy. "I want to talk!"

More than talk, really. Though the practice of embracing seemed to have a grown a great deal more violent while he was away, Ron was ready to endure some more of that. And laughing. And reminiscing, on account of missing so much. And–well, anything. Ron was satisfied with sitting in complete silence with his family. As long as he was _with his family_.

"You need sleep," Molly told him redundantly, but with a tolerably tender tone. If anybody else had stated that rather obvious fact, Ron would have snapped very rudely. "We'll talk at breakfast."

Breakfast. Ron rolled his eyes as he surrendered to his maniac family's distress, and flopped back down to his bed. Why was it that his family seemed to believe that he could not talk things out properly unless food was present?

There was a more rational thought, looming in the back of his mind. It was mad, utterly illogical. He had been gone for two years–during one of which loyalties were tested and hearts were betrayed–and suddenly he returned in the dead of night, only to be welcomed back with open arms? The circumstances were suspicious, to say the least. Ron knew, distantly, that there was very little sensibility to his family's reactions. But, then again, reason had very little to do with love.

"Good night Ron," Arthur called out as all eight members of his family crowded about the door way.

Ron, who had been tucked in with a disturbing amount of zeal, attempted with no success to free one arm to wave at them. "Night Dad."

"Night Ron," his mother called out in a wobbly tone. Ron responded in a less victimized voice.

"Good night Ron," Bill added.

"Night Bi–oh Merlin, we are not doing this, are we? We haven't done this since I was ten!"

"Good night Ron!" Bill repeated insistently.

Ron laid his head limply against his pillow, and dully returned the cheerful note.

And so it went on... Eight family members giving their "Good night's" to Ron, and then the other eight giving them to Ginny. After her came the individual "Good night's" to George, and then, because he would brook no repetition, "Sweet Dreams" to Fred. The tedious and long dead game continued for a while, only finishing when Bill answered the last good night with a resounding snore. Ron wondered how his eldest brother managed, considering George and Fred attempted to outdo each other by volume and enthusiasm.

Besides, it was already a good night, whether one wished it or not. He had his health and family. What more could a boy ask for?

Ron frowned at the ceiling.

At least one more thing.

He was slightly ashamed to realise that he hadn't thought of her in quite a while. Was that wrong? Did it show some weakening of his affection? Ron certainly hoped not. After some effort, he escaped the confines of his bed, and crept out of the room. Tip toeing past his siblings' doors, Ron made his way to the kitchen in the dark, stubbing his toe more than once and manfully trying to smother the urge to swear.

He nearly tipped over the flowerpot as he groped blindly for it, and bit his tongue as he breathed a sigh of relief. Whew. First day back, and already he'd get a scolding.

The embers were on the verge of death when Ron stumbled upon them, and he quickly revived a small fire before grabbing a handful of powder. He placed it in the pocket of his pyjama top, hoping his mother would not scold him for soiling the material. He did not know where Harry kept his powder, after all.

Then, as quiet as he would dare, hoping that everybody was solidly cocooned in slumber, Ron muttered, "Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place." Unbeknownst to Ron, quite a few of his brothers and one particular sister had heard him creep past, but knew in their hearts that he would return. A boy–even long lost, baby brother ones–was allowed some privacy, after all.

"Ron!" Hermione gasped in a whisper.

Ron quickly ducked beneath the entry of the fire place, and smiled tentatively at her. He did not know why she was pacing in the kitchen at the dead of night, but guessed it had something to do with that wet faced baby in her arms. He saw very little of her, due to the meanness of the small fire and the paltry amount of street lamp light sneaking its way into the windows. Her eyes were red-rimmed, he noticed as he uncertainly stepped closer, and Ron hoped that it was due to interrupted slumber, and nothing to do with his unannounced departure.

"Ron, are you all right? You've been crying!" she noticed as she stepped closer. Not even Hermione Granger, Ron noticed with wry amusement, could do two things at once. He stood with a growing smile as she appeared torn, wanting to embrace him but could not find a feasible way of doing so without squishing the baby.

"I have not," he replied with false indignity, and smiled down at her. Most likely, it was a loopy grin, but Ron trusted her worry for him would override his present silliness.

"Why are you here? Did things not go well? Has Fred–"

He thought it rather barbaric of him, to simply go and take without any permission. But she had given permission, this morning, hadn't she? And, really, the girl was practically begging for it, standing there, all adorable in her thick, ankle length nightgown and two, funny braids. Almost every inch of skin was covered in cloth or baby. To not kiss her was blatant defiance of all laws of universe. Not to mention defiance of his instincts.

Ron laid his hands on her shoulders, and quickly swooped down for a swift, tender kiss. His lips–unruly, disobedient pair of things–somehow managed to transgress past the chaste good night he had intended it to be, but Hermione did not seem to mind. When she slowly opened her mouth, Ron pulled away before temptation would make him forget there was another being present, and dangerously positioned between them.

"I just wanted to say good night, before I went to bed," he told her nervously, nearly laughing at the way her eyes remained closed and her lips remained puckered a second or two after he had pulled away. "You all right then?"

He hoped she answered affirmatively. There would be no end to his worries if she said no.

For some odd reason, Hermione's eyes became glassy, and she blinked away the tears with a rising blush. "Yes, Ron, really," she laughed shakily. "I cannot believe you left your family just to–"

She couldn't seem to finish, in the intimate darkness of the kitchen, and only looked at Ron's lips as a distraction. Merlin. It was time to leave, or that joke about being late for breakfast was in the danger of becoming reality.

Because his body acted without his mind's consent, Ron found himself kissing her strongly and quickly once more, and darting back into the fireplace. "I have to go," he whispered in apology when she merely stared at him, mouth hanging open slightly. Soft, sweet, capable mouth... He shook himself and forced his eyes to latch on hers. "Before..." Ron shrugged with embarrassment. "Well, before you try to molest me or anything."

Just as he hoped, that sweet wistfulness eased away from her expression, and her eyes lit anew with familiar merriment. "I shall try to curb my urges until breakfast then. Harry says we are to join you."

Ron nodded, and raised his hand to throw down the floo powder. "Try not to make a lecherous spectacle at the table," he advised earnestly. Then he winked, and thought he saw Hermione melt a bit. "Libertine."

"Prude," she returned with a full, dazzling smile.

"Good night, Hermione."

"Good night Ron..." Hermione did not know what possessed her to say it. Habit, perhaps. Or loyalty. Or the purely lightness of the situation, in which worries, and fears, and troubles were washed away by silly affection. No matter what the motivation, she added without thought, "I love you."

She did not think it possible that he would smile wider, and yet Ron managed just before he returned home. "Love you too, Hermione." He spoke clearly and loudly, illogically hoping the volume of his destination would not stir Lawrence but still manage to irritate Harry upstairs. The green fire whirled abruptly about his feet, engulfing him and transporting him to his kitchen. But not before she caught the last few words: "_Absens in remota_."

That night, after Ron had torn off the powder-dusted pyjama top and tucked himself back into bed, he indulged in the "undeserved privilege." There were confrontations to be made, matters to clarify, lives to regain, true. But Ron slept with an indelible smile, dreaming of the coming morning.

xoxox

**  
Mais d'aventure en aventure  
De train en train, de port en port  
Je n'ai pu fermer ma blessure  
Je t'aime encore.**

**D'aventure en aventure**

**by Serge Lama**


	22. Unjust I may have been,

**All right, so I'm heartless for the unholy hiatus. I didn't even know it was coming either. Y'all don't want my excuses, and I'd hate to go into the painful details, so let me just say that I wholeheartedly apologize for the delay. For those of you who have nominated this fic or recommended it on other sites, I thank you, and I'm sorry if you've pimped this only to be disappointed by the lack of updates. I can no longer give any more promises, but I can guarantee that—in the odd occasion I do take six months to update again—I will answer any email or yahoogroup message concerning my progress. Feel free to flame me if you must. Authors move faster if their asses are on fire.**

**And, just so you know, there's a small contest of sorts at my yahoogroup, in which some have tried to find the one line that inspired me to write the entire fic. So far, no correct guesses, although I admire some of the efforts. I'll just say this: when I do tell them which phrase made me want to write TPP, some people are going to shake their heads and think, "That's just stupid."**

**Thanks so much to PythonBlossom for beta-ing! **

**susy: **Thanks for the review, but, really it's not about lovable Ron or lovable Draco…well, some parts are, but I'm focusing more on Hermione and what would make her happiest. Thanks though, for the input!

**lecrayon: **I'm just being nosy now but…by, "lecrayon" do you mean French the and then English crayon or just the French pencil? Either way, I like it . Hypocritically, I don't like AUs either. But thanks for the review!

**cucu4cocopuffs: **Man! I love cococ puffs! They're better than cocoa pebbles! Oh…um…if your name is more about an inside joke than the cereal, don't mind me and my cereal loving self. Thanks for the sweet review!

**CarEtoDreaM: **well, what can I say? Well done, little psychic you. Thanks for your review.

**Dastardly Snail: **What up d? I think I should just put a warning over the entire story that says: You'll be emotional. Fair enough, huh? Thanks for the super long and rambly review—they're my favorite kind!

**Gardengirl: **Hey, I hope that the lake of tears have dried up by now! Although, I have to admit, chapter 21 lands me in a similar aquatic situation. Thanks for reviewing!

**tussis: **If it makes you feel better, I'm not done with Neville. He does make another appearance, later, and we do see a different (or, familiar, depending on your opinion) side of him. Thanks for being honest! Also, thank you for the loverly things you said about the fic (and yes, Tom Felton is nice to look at. I cannot believe that he wants to be a pro fisherman!) and I hope that you enjoy this chapter.

**Wafa: **Hey, my little sis has a friend named Wafa. I'm glad you enjoyed the whole thing so much! Yeah, I'm sure the illustrious Draco Malfoy would appreciate your feedback too! Well…probably not, but thanks any way!

**anna: **Thanks for the review, but as I've said before, there's more to this than making Draco or Ron happy simply because we love those characters. It's about Hermione, and what she deserves. I'm glad though, that, despite the evil unforgivable things that Draco has done, you miraculously still love my portrayal of him. :0)

**chloe: **Thanks for the feedback. I appreciate the input, but whoever Hermione ends up with isn't really the point now, is it? It's more about the story itself, not the hook up. But I like hearing what reviewers have to say, so thank you.

**paul is dead: **Hiya. Brace yourself, because if you thought that last chapter was long… well, you'll see. If you ignore review-guilt, then I get to ignore not-updating-guilt…which is impossible, because I took forever to update. But thanks for reviewing this time, and I won't blame you if you fail to review for this chapter. :0)

**DraginLover: **Hey, I'm glad you liked that HP-HP line. I think we'd all like Harry to be the hot professor…but enough about my pervy mind. To answer your question, yes, I do have some of the silly conversations that these characters have. Or sometimes, I try to start a discussion about some of these inane topics, but nobody wants to discuss it, so I just write it out in the fic. I'm weird that way I guess. As you can see, no it's not the last chapter, which would have a "The End" on at the end. Thanks for the review!

**KateinVA: **Thanks! I'm glad I've got you intrigued. It's weird when fanfic can get you to react so strongly, huh? Personally, I hope you're just rooting for Hermione in general. I'm looking forward to seeing how it fleshes out too, considering how I don't know how that'll happen quite yet. :0)

**Unspekable May: **Hi! I'm glad that you got so much out of this fic. And you're right, it's more of a question of pleasing herself instead of pleasing both or just one of the guys. And I don't mind any mistakes in your review, I'm just glad that you were moved enough to say something. Just out of curiosity, what is your first language? Any who, thanks for giving such a nice review!

**alexiaseventy-five: **Ew! A bag of lettuce? I prefer eating cookies and milk while I read fanfic, which is way unhealthier, so to each his own I guess. And I enjoy confetti almost as much as I enjoy making readers cry, so thanks for that.

Wow, I don't even remember typing the word "spastic." I'll try to scan the chapter, but, to be honest, I don't wanna because doing so would make me uncomfortably emotional.

As you can tell, I did take my time with this chapter, and I'm sorry to say that I think I reached my peak with the last chapter. Ah well, good to know that it was reachable, huh? Now all that's left is reaching the end! Thanks for the encouraging review!

**Lilly Granger: **Don't worry the story isn't over (as you probably can tell.) It'll only be over when I'm writing weepy goodbye responses to all the reviewers. I'm not looking forward to that! And I don't think I could ever write a "the rest is up to you" type of story, because I'm way too possessive with my plot to do that. It's a flaw, I know. :0D I'm pretty sure that, if "fantabuluse" isn't a real word, it'll make it into the dictionary pretty soon. Thanks for reviewing!

**FriendlyReminder: **Well, I've discussed it with some folk and I've reviewed the material. I don't think that it deserves an M Rating considering there's no strong violence nor graphic sexual content. If you're referring to the language, it's much milder than that of normal British twenty somethings, or twenty something males in general. So, while I appreciate your concern, I'm not going to take that suggestion. Thanks!

**Ariana: ** Hey, I'm glad that last chapter forced you to write a review. Otherwise, I would have never learned what you like and what you don't like. It's a little strange, isn't it, that you're a Good shipper at heart but you're rooting for Draco and Hermione? It seems to be the same for Draco & Hermione shippers, and how they're rooting for Ron. I don't know how I managed to do that, but it's always interesting to hear the different feed back.

I did realize, after reading HBP, that my Harry is far from the canon Harry, and I'll try to bring him back around without contradicting what I've written here. Hermione is acting unusual, but, one must admit, these are unusual circumstances. :0D Thanks for being honest, and I appreciate the review!

**justanobject: **WOW, where to begin responding to such an awesome review? And don't say "the beginning" because I'm the designated smart ass here, thank you very much:0D

Thanks so much for telling me what you enjoyed about it. I love it when reviewers do that, and you telling me that you enjoyed it so much to not review made me smile. I'm glad that you had to stop eventually, however (my fault for not updating, I know) so that you could tell me how much you liked it. Not that my ego needs compliments, but, still, they're nice and cushiony. ;0)

Haha—I'd say "quote my fic to your nonficcer friends and make them ficcer friends" but

it sounds horribly arrogant

and b) it sounds really prophety.

So I'll refrain. Hey now, surely you've realized by now that I tend to not give my readers what they want, so a Harry-Poppy romance is not necessarily near.

And there's no such thing as a disgustingly long review. There are only disgustingly long hiatuses. And if I haven't said it enough, thanks again!

**silkenroses: **Hiya! I'm always pleased when reviews start with "Good Lord." Stop praying to me, though, you'll be struck by lightning. Heehee. Ahem. I was happy to hear that you did not cry in the laughing places nor laugh in the crying places. How horribly embarrassing if that happened. And I've gotten a loverly beta, so thanks for the suggestion!

No, as you can tell, it's not the last chapter. The last chapter will have a big THE END tacked at the end of it. I'm still debating an epilogue…I dunno…Thanks for the review!

**sugar n spice 522: **Wow, I've missed talking to you! And the logical solution to that problem would be to update more, huh? Right, I'll work on that. Any who, I'm glad you liked it, and I hope that you aren't too upset with the wait!

**JenJen: **Hey, another cmer! Awesome! You'll see the references, then, in this chapter to that lovely little site! I think the reunion scene got to everyone, and I'm very certain that there's no hope of matching it. With that oh-so-optimistic note, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**kannichtfranzoesisch: **"the only thing left to be wary about is whether his worryingly low sense of self-worth will bring about tragedy" wow, so well phrased. I'm a bit jealous, actually. Gosh darn you kann…well, I'm too lazy to type it all over again.

And I think your name was familiar for something I had heard on tv, which is weird, I know, but I remember the most random things. Thanks for clearing it up though. I just learned a German phrase! Yay!

**missb: **Aw, thanks!I've found out that I love writing Ron. He's so darn lovable! (we'll just ignore his behavior in HBP for a bit)

I wanna hug Ron when he's sad too. Then again, I'd hug Ron if he was a lunatic, so that doesn't say much about me. I'm glad you like Harry in this fic—a bit out of character, but still Harry I hope. Thanks for the review!

**Gonzette: **heehee, is your name a reference to the blue muppet, or am I just weird?

Man, I laughed when I read that you "so friggin cried." I've probably killed your new habit of reviewing now that I tried to wait for hell to freeze over before updating. Sorry for making you addicted and then not feeding the addiction (wow, awful metaphor), but thanks for the review and for making me laugh:0D

**aurelione: **wow, it's been forever since we've talked! You asked me on another story, I forget which, sorry, if I'm a Southern-accent asian. Well, sadly, yes. I'm working on it though! And yay, I got a brava! Thanks for that and the review!

**Breanna Senese: **It's true! You rarely get to see Ron's side! I lurve the poor boy and JKR hardly gives us his pov. Very unfair. Thanks for the review!

**tinkabelle: **Hi! And thanks for moseying from Dangerous Liasons to here! Wow, 800 pages! I've only got 531 on my processor! Then again, I like small font, so…any who, back on topic. Thanks for the review! I appreciate your dedication to finishing the massive thing. If I ever found myself with an 800 fic, I'd give up:0D

**PythonBlossom: **Lovely you! Lovely writer of lovely reviews you!

Well, even if I don't deserve a Troll for the fic, I do deserve a Troll for the updating period. Very badly done.

I'm glad you liked the reunion scene. I was scared about writing it, actually, almost as much as everybody else was scared of reading it. I guess we were all joined by the fear of my writing, heehee.

I used to switch between loving to hate Draco and then hating even hating Draco. I think I'm nearing loving to hate him, but, chances are, that'll change by next week. I'm really wishy washy about this, in case you didn't notice.

(btw: pffft OOC? Very nice. I shall use it in my reviews from now on.)

And "abruptly end" it? I don't think you'd ever let me! (seriously, never let me. Threaten me if you must, PB, but never let me.) :0)

**tweeny-weeny**: Hey, it's not mad to cry about fanfic, is it? If yes, then I have to be locked up. :0D Thanks for the review!

**loverlydaisy520**: GAH! I've missed you!

And, you forget: You can gamble. The lotto, any way. AWESOME! I'm talking to a possible millionaire!

Heehee, you're not the only one who wanted to slap him. I was thisclose to writing a Harry-Ron slapfest…but, you know…some would frown upon such silliness…

Hey, don't apologize for not having faith me. I'm sure this absurdly long hiatus has demolished any and every faith that you had left. In fact, I've lost faith in me, so no worries.

Aw…that "Rowling would be proud" comment made me so so so happy. It's quite weird, though, ain't it, to think of HER reading fanfic?

And, go ahead and be nitpicky, it's fine. After all, if I could be nitpicky, surely my reviewers could. And, yes, the drama shall arrive in horrible abundance, for which I'm not sure I could do justice. But I'll try.

Thank you for the review. Thank you for the lovely words. And thank you for not killing me over the internet for not updating soon.

:0D

**The Giant Squid**: Hey fellow cmer! And, yes, I will marry you if you're willing to pay off my student loans, pay for my future tuition, and you're willing to abide by polygamy, as another reviewer is ahead of you in marriage proposals. Sorry it took forever. This is embarrassing, actually, knowing that you've seen my posts at cm and knowing that I should be typing instead…awkward…moving on…

I love it when reviewers melt into a puddle of goo and die (which happens…oh so rarely, so, you know, you've made my day) so thanks!

(and I know that this is totally unrelated to this fic and everything but…I'm so excited! Japanese scientists have captured the first photograph ever of a live giant squid! I saw that article and thought of you!)

**Sunny June 46**: Let's see…it is a tough decision. Neuroscience, or fanfiction? I think you made the right choice. Still, by this time, you've probably gotten your masters in neuroscience or something similar, I suppose.

Wow, has that bar I raised for fanfiction been lowered considering the obscene amount of time I took to update? Because, if it has, I stand thoroughly ashamed. I used to absolutely detest authors who take forever, but now that I'm in college and life hates me, I'm starting to understand why they took as long as they did.

And I've no excuse to be so judgmental and biased when I read other people's fanfic—I'm just mean that way, I guess. Thanks for the review!

**WordE.Smith**: Yes. The chapters are sad. Even when they're happy, they're sad. I'm a horribly depressing person, huh?

And I'm sure Ron would be happy to hear that, despite scars, their bond is still beautiful. Whether or not the story will comply is yet to be seen, however…I'm always back and forth on this.

And thanks for the lovely compliments! I don't know if you'll even read this, considering your lj said that you're relocating entirely. But still, thanks!

**Brandybuckbeak**: EEK! Brandybuckbeak, how I've missed you! (right, that sounds stalkerish…just ignore me…)

Hey now, I was wondering why you didn't comment on "The Return of the King"! Then again, at this point, I've no right to be disappointed with any thing.

(pssst…you're right…if you did try to review twice…THEY would be watching…with binoculars…and moustaches…)

If I left Draco down there, where would the angst be? Well, down there with him! Yay! No? Too easy? I thought so. Easy stories never come to me. I'm one of the unfortunate ones.

Writing Ron was fun, though it's not fun to switch back to Hermione. It's exhausting to think like a girl! I'm going to pout for a bit now…

Hey, Donald Trump's hair does not fit into the "dead things" category. I'm sure that he takes it off every night and puts it in its terrarium so it could grow into a bigger and better hair-hat. And OF COURSE I think you can pull it off…I just think you ought to have rabies shots handy.

Woohoo, I made it within the limit! I avoided the angry fist shake! (right?)

**MidnightzStorm**: Wow, one of the few who don't curse me for twists and turns! Thanks for the review!

**quiet liban**: Heya. Come now. You "think" you heart Weasleys? Everybody hearts Weasleys! Well, everybody normal…which explains the Malfoys' penchant for dysfunction, I suppose… Don't worry, I'll put a reminder of what happened between Fred and Ron in a later chapter, because hell, I'm sure even I've forgotten the details by now.

And, yes, because I'm absolutely insane, things will get more complicated. With plots, you see, I like to dig the hole deeper and deeper, some times to the point where I have no idea how I'm going to get myself out…I believe this hole is a metaphor for my own grave…?

Wait a sec…you are a rare "yaysies" dealer? Very lucrative, because, as you know, we fanfic writers are addicted to yaysies. I love randomness, keep it coming (if you haven't given up on this fic yet…)

**Bella**: Ciao!

Just so you know, that's as far as I've gotten in my Italian class. My professor's old, and tends to get off topic for an hour.

And finally! Somebody's recognized the heart-breaker in Hermione. You know, it's us quiet-nerdy-stuck-up ones that are usually the homewreckers. At least, that's what I tell myself to feel better.

It's so funny to read "Draco…normal, loving-Hermione self." It's weird, because, in this universe, it's true. How odd. I never thought I'd make that a normal trait of Draco's. Didn't plan to, any way!

When I read your review, I couldn't help thinking: Wow. Bella's father and Bella's boy have well-dressed lawns. Heehee…

The Philippines were awesome and the Killers have left my heart. I'm madly in love with The Bravery now, so it's all good. Sorry for taking so long to update!

**Mae-Gene**: It's your lucky day! I'm going to answer your question!

No, not that "Who is she going to choose?" one, though that'd be awfully generous of me, huh? But I'll tell you that Draco has not left the continent! Mostly because I don't feel like writing about great distances. There. Sort of answers it, doesn't it? Thanks for the review!

**Sissiro**: Get ready for unnecessary declarations: I HEART WEASLEYS TOO! AND I WANT GEORGE TOO! IN FACT GIVE ME ONE OF EACH! (except Ginny, cuz, obviously, we wouldn't suit…)

Maybe I'm a miracle worker, making heartless bitches cry when they're not supposed to. Oh god, I'm such a sucker for obvious jokes too. You should see me at the movies. I'm the one obnoxiously snorting at all the corny jokes everybody else rolls their eyes at. I dunno, it kinda scares me to love somebody as much as Mrs. Weasley loves Ron. I mean, she was devastated with him just missing, and for him to come back nearly devastated her again. That sort of intensity intimidates me more than it entices me.

Okay, okay, now I have to clear something up. As much as I love Ron—which is scarily a lot—there's no way anybody in the world, fictional or not, can surpass chocolate. I mean, it's CHOCOLATE! That's like saying…well, I can't think of a better example, but really. Chocolate.

And of course it will be quite messy when Draco remembers it all. I'm not looking forward to writing it, because writing it will most likely make me feel sorry for Draco, which will put this whole Draco-hating on the back burner…it's complicated, this fic. Why did I start it again? And hey, I love rambling reviews. If rambling is wrong, I don't wanna be right…

**Fizzie-lizzie**: I'm doing the math…so, I updated in March, you were leaving for four months…ARE YOU BACK! Any who, I thought about emailing you a tidbit before you left, but a) I didn't have enough for even a tidbit and b) I didn't know if you'd enjoy having an unfinished chapter.

And thanks for the review! And I hope your 4 months were terrific!

**Amortentia**: Hiya and thanks for the review! What's Draco gonna do now that Ron's back? Well, the sensible thing to do is to lay down in defeat, but you know them slytherins. Spoiled bunch. :0)

**insipidparagon**: Aw, I feel horrible. I mean, I'm grateful, obviously, for such a lovely and thorough review. But I feel horrible for you having written such a review and me taking a millennia to respond. Forgive, please?

PERCY DOES ROCK! He's totally hated in my house, which brings out the love-the-underdog in me. I'm glad that you liked all the scenes (I suspect your shock of the wand-theft just about matched Harry's), and, to be honest (I'm going to embarrass myself now) I got a bit teary myself just writing them. Why I do this to the character I love, I have no idea.

Oh, and you've been on the edge of your seat about this, so I'll tell you now. Alfred Enoch forgives you for mistaking Omniscient Boy as Dean. Do not ask me how or why I know; just trust me. :D

Considering it's been…oh, roughly…thirty seven point two years since I've read your review, I shall renew my grad-student envy and I hope that you've nailed your thesis by now. Thesis-writing sounds like fun! (that's me trying to be optimistic about my future)

And woohoo! Awesome cheer! I'm putting it in the yahoogroup!

Oh, and I'm glad to see that, even after the third and fourth read, it still draws a reaction. :0D

**c-dog**: Hey, thanks! I'm glad you think that long chapters are great. I've been looking at the ones lined up after this one, and "brief" definitely isn't in the descriptions…

**Danielle-Pen**: Abandon the fic? NEVER!

Take forever, perhaps. Promise upcoming updates and then delay it, perhaps. But abandon it? I wouldn't dare. 1) I've put way too much time into it. 2) Somebody will probably hurt me if I give up. So you see? And hey, I'm glad that you spend any time reviewing this story-with-rotten-updater-for-an-author. I don't mind short reviews, and I don't mind the amount of reviews I have. I just like it when it's read. :0D

**Monkeystarz**: Yeah—you go away Draco! Ron's back! There's only room for one studly wizard in this story.

(but…damn it…that means I'd have to get rid of Harry and a good majority of the Weasley brothers)

Never mind, Draco stays. If only to be a punching bag. And goodness—you enjoyed the last chapter as much as you love to eat! That's a SERIOUS compliment! I shall treasure it always.

**Athena Linborn**: All right, all right! And I'm sorry the last chap (however long ago it was last updated) made you cry a beyond-ridiculous amount of times. Thanks for the motivation!

**firefirefly**: Yeah! Woohoo! Go Ron! He's awesome! I love him! We're gonna have kids—wait, too much info? Yeah, sorry. Hermione obviously does belong with Ron, but, you never know with this fic. It runs away from me. And I hope you like this chappie.

And, no, I haven't read Gravidy's The God of the Lost, though I've heard wonderful things about it. As much as I'm flattered and amazed by the suggestion of publishing this, I don't think I could do it. I wouldn't have the heart to change the characters into something different, but still, the idea made me hopeful for a few moments! Thanks for the suggestion though!

**Bubbles**: Heya and thanks for the review. Interesting choice of words, for I have it on good authority that "the bugger" is Draco's middle name. You don't buy that? Well, what if I said that he was born in the year of the bugger:0D Either way, I think that label is permanently stuck on him…the rotten little—well, you know.

The Painted Past

Chapter 22

**And Heaven punishes desires**

**As much as if the deed were done.**

xoxox

Harry blearily opened his eyes, and, with a heavy groan, closed them again.

He was tired. No, he was damned tired. His chest hurt.

His chest always hurt, he noticed sleepily, rolling over and twisting the blankets around his legs, when he was tired. He didn't know why. It was a little known secret, but whenever he happened to stay up past two, Harry was plagued by a constant chest ache the next day. Eyes still closed, Harry smirked at the ceiling. If only Voldemort had known that a little bout of insomnia would have done him in.

Harry groaned again, and rolled over once more. There wasn't a specific reason for the pained sound; it was simply a part of his morning tradition. Besides, there were all sorts of general things constantly bothering him, so much so that his Groaning Melody had become as regular as the sunrise at Number Twelve.

As the drowsiness gradually faded from his mind, the usual vultures began to prey on him.

_Ugh. Students._

He rolled over, clumsily dragging a pillow over his head.

_Shit. Malfoy._

Angrily, he kicked at the heavy tangle of blankets, but gave up the effort. The sheets remained twisted around his feet.

_Damn. Ron._

Harry's eyes flew open, astonished. In this stupefied state, he attempted to both kick off the blanket and roll over, resulting in a painful landing on the floor. Now bruised and bewildered, Harry scrambled to his feet, and found his glasses beneath the bed.

There wasn't any more, "Damn. Ron." Because now, there _was_ a Ron. No more worrying, no more wondering, no more…well, yeah, there would still be groaning every morning, on account of Malfoy and school, but, besides that—

"Ron's here!" he whooped joyfully, running out of the room. He was nearly to Hermione's door when he skidded to a halt, turned around, and ran to his room to throw some clothes on over his shorts. Hermione had a fit the last time he did that—which was yesterday, when he had been excited that Ron was _almost_ here.

By the time he was dressed, Hermione was sleepily shutting the door with one hand and holding Lawrence with the other. Keeping the running to a minimum, Harry beamed at her at the top of the stairs.

Hermione smiled tiredly, and walked past him.

"Hermione," he said impatiently, falling in step beside her as they descended. "Hermione, don't you remember? Ron's here."

She shuffled to the kitchen, and stopped there to give Harry a very wide, yet bashfully secretive smile. "Yes, Harry. I remember perfectly."

Harry's ecstatic grin was replaced with a confused frown. He then decided he didn't want to know the details.

"Did you just skip?" Hermione wanted to know languidly, watching him spark a fire in the stove.

"I walked fast," he corrected, smiling at the flames.

"You just skipped," Hermione laughed, swaying Lawrence left and right.

"There might have been a slight trotting tinge to it," Harry relented. Despite his blush, he could not stop grinning. And neither, for that matter, could Hermione. There seemed to be no words to match their joy, and they endured some silence as they readied breakfast before Harry spoke through chuckles.

"We can't eat this!"

"Why not?"

"We're eating at the Burrow," he told her cheerfully.

"But it'll be a bit of a wait," Hermione told him pleadingly. "I'm hungry."

"What do you mean, a bit of a wait?" he scoffed smilingly. "It's only—bloody hell," Harry groaned as he looked at a clock. Hermione's eyes flitted to the timepiece as well, but not for the time. The Elvis Presley creation sent by a grateful fan from the States, legs swinging as the pendulum, always made her laugh.

"The King says it's six!" Harry groaned. Ever since he started working, Hermione noticed with a slight frown, her best friend groaned a great deal in the morning. It was like living with a dying—dying bestial groany thing. Hermione frowned at herself. Well, it _was_ six o'clock in the morning, and her massive vocabulary didn't wake up until seven.

"Why the hell did I wake up at six?" he complained at a low volume, in respect for Lawrence. His earlier chipper attitude forgotten, Harry laid his head on the table. "I'm tired."

"You weren't tired a second ago."

"That's when I didn't know it was six. God, it's this sodding job. It makes me shave, and wake up in the morning."

"Will you skip—"

"Trot," he corrected grumpily.

"Will you trot again if I turn the hands to eight?"

"It's not the same," he sighed, concentrating on the clock once more as if willing time to move. If he was not careful, Hermione noted, it was very possible. He smiled slightly at her and Lawrence. "Do you think he's awake?"

"Probably not."

"It would be rude to wake up him, I guess."

"Definitely."

Harry chewed at his bottom lip thoughtfully. "But," he began hopefully, "living with the twins means that he's used to rude awakenings all the time, so it's not like if I did happen to pop over and drag him out, it'd be so terrible—"

"Harry," was all Hermione gave as a warning. It was sufficient. Harry sullenly sighed, and went about finding them a snack.

Around seven, Percy appeared in the fireplace. At the first glimpse of red hair, they had both hoped it was Ron. But Harry saw the figure adjusting his horn rimmed glasses, and he slumped his shoulders.

"Mum's making everyone wear their best clothes," he told them, not bothering to leave the fireplace. He sighed. "Don't ask me why; it's not as if Ron will have to."

"I don't find that fair at all," Harry murmured as Percy disappeared. "I don't even know if I could find a tie other than that ugly one I tried to give Ron."

"If you would clean your room, it wouldn't be so difficult," Hermione sighed, mind working at a rapid speed. She wanted to look nice, even if Mrs. Weasley hadn't sent the instructions, but looking nice meant having a body that never had a baby. There was that cream wool dress, but the three buttons near her navel didn't properly close…

"I mean, I've stopped wearing ties to work," Harry reasoned more to himself than to her. Hermione already knew that, as Remus sent a letter every day that Harry did not. It promoted "unprofessionalism." Harry generally ignored Lupin's warnings, as "unprofessionalism," was not a real word.

"You don't have to wear a tie," she told him as they trudged up the stairs.

"But I can't wear a collared shirt like Perce was wearing without a tie."

"Why not?"

"Because all of my collars are too big, and then it makes my head look abnormally large, and then I look like a bespectacled lollipop—"

"Harry," she sighed as they prepared to part ways. "I told you not to listen to the twins. They only pick on you because Ron wasn't here. They were just saying that to disturb you."

"Well, it worked," he muttered as he closed the door behind him.

Hermione smothered a smile when she saw Harry wearing his old Gryffindor tie, and was allowed to use the fireplace first to travel to the Burrow, as Harry was sloppy, and had not properly organized his business until the last minute.

She had fixed the non-buttoning buttons situation. Although the front of the dress still refused to close over her post birth belly, the small slit of skin was easily hidden by a wide, black belt.

"Hermione, you look lovely," Ginny enthused when they arrived.

"I doubt it'll matter," Bill commented as Molly—so happy she barely spoke, intelligibly any way—motioned them to sit. "Hermione could wear a burlap sack and Ron would still be chuffed at the sight of her."

"Depending on the size of said burlap sack," Charlie agreed as they settled into their assigned seats. Arthur frowned at his sons, and both smiled back brightly.

"But isn't it sad?" George lamented as he walked into the kitchen, pulling his own shirt collar through the jumper's small opening. Fred followed soon after, tucking the white top beneath his jumper—which fit him perfectly, unlike his challenged twin brother—into his waistband.

"Terribly tragic," Fred agreed.

"What?" Harry asked, alarmed.

The twins smiled, so serenely that Hermione couldn't help but find their identical grins a bit creepy.

"That your head stretched your clothing," George told him frankly, laughing.

"And we also feel sorry for your constant struggle to stay upright," Fred added in between chuckles.

Hermione sighed. She knew that Harry was trying to maturely ignore them, but the two bright red spots on his cheeks belied his calmness.

Molly prevented all quibbling by sending the twins to wake Ron before they could sit down. As the pair left, she wondered aloud if that was such a wise idea, and sent Ginny to ensure Ron's safety.

But Ron arrived intact, though he had some minor embarrassment when he realised what everybody was wearing. Besides that, the morning went well. Harry could not stop smiling, and Hermione herself was feeling a bit giddy. Everybody teased one another between bites, and the conversation flowed naturally. Ron even asked about Lawrence, who was placed beside Molly for safekeeping, which pleased Hermione immensely. Truthfully, Hermione could not focus on anything very clearly unless Ron said or did it. She did notice, however, that while it was somewhat cloudy when they awoke at Number Twelve, the pale sunlight flooded the Burrow. As insensible as it was, Hermione credited this to Ron's presence.

They ate, and ate, and … Ron continued to eat even more. It did not bother Hermione in the slightest that he forsook conversation. After all, he had had little opportunity to have a decent meal for the past two years.

"When you're done, Ron," Harry told him, gaze hinting that such an event should be drawing nigh, "I've brought something for you in the living room."

"Oh, I already saw the tele–" Ron paused, unable to scramble for the word. "I saw it."

Charlie scoffed. "That's for all of us, thank you very much. Don't think that you're that special."

"You didn't have to get me a gift, Harry," Ron began dubiously.

"He didn't," Ginny assured her youngest brother. "It's a stack of newspapers."

Ron took a long draught of juice before studying Harry thoughtfully. "Er .. .an extremely funny stack of newspapers?"

"Harry," Arthur spoke up smilingly, "has very sensibly believed that, the best way for you to become acclimated to today's circumstances is by perusing the past two years newspapers."

"Weekly?" Ron asked, alarmed. "That's ... a hundred and four editions to plough through!"

"Oh," Harry emitted with raised eyebrows. "I suppose weekly editions would have been more logical. I had purchased the daily ones ... was that a bad idea?"

"Considering how very little goes on up there," Bill sighed, motioning to Harry's head, "I'm reasonably impressed with the thought at all."

"Oy, that's not fair," Charlie interrupted. Hermione smiled slightly as, with a full mouth, Ron made an encouraging expression. His elder brother continued, "Ron's out of school now! Why should we make him endure more studies?"

Ron nodded sagely. "He does have a point."

"School is irrelevant," Percy argued. "In order to be a stable, well informed young man, Ron has to be aware of what is considered common knowledge in today's society."

George loudly let out a _pffft._

"If I were you, Ron," he said with a roll of his eyes, "I'd only take advice on being a 'stable, well informed young man' from other proven stable, well informed young men. Like me and Fred."

"I have a job!" Percy protested.

"Have you really?" Ron asked curiously.

"But not a lavishly fantastic job," Fred argued. "Like us."

"Excuse me," Mrs. Weasley spoke up, clearly hedging towards frustration, "but can we please not bicker and tease this morning?"

"You want us to be completely silent, then?" Ron asked, bewildered. "And, before anybody suggests anything else, I'll read them."

"You will?" Ginny asked, slightly surprised.

"Yes," Ron returned, slightly surprised by her slight surprise. "I can read you know."

"And I can be as straight-laced as Perce," George declared, "but that doesn't mean I commit social suicide."

Percy opened his mouth to retaliate when a rapid, urgent rapping resonated from the front door. Even before Mr. Weasley could rise, they heard a familiar, male voice give a muffled oath, and that handy spell had been uttered to intrude upon the happy family breakfast.

"Oh shit," Harry swore, and ducked under the table. He was not so swift as to avoid Mrs. Weasley's disapproval, and, while he hid under the carpentry and dodged Ginny's swinging foot, the boy rubbed at his smarting ear with a pout.

Mr. Weasley met Remus Lupin as the man entered the abode. He had barely closed the door behind him when he began a hurried report. "Merlin's beard, Arthur, you won't believe what they've done now."

"Remus, sit down–"

"I mean, you'd think they'd learn!" Remus exploded, frustrated as he continued his distracted pacing, just inside the house. "After what happened with Mrs. Malfoy–"

"Remus," Mrs. Weasley called out as she arose from her seat as well.

"It's appalling. As soon as it was delivered, Albus left as soon as possible–"

"But what about the school?" Ron asked, surprised.

Remus could not answer.

Ron frowned, and stood by his beaming father as the professor stood in speechless wonder.

"I mean, if you're not there, and Dumbledore is gone, and Harry's still here...who the hell is looking after your students?"

From her seat, Hermione watched with a growing smile as Remus Lupin simply stared, blinking several times as if testing the verity of his eyes. She observed Ron's equal confusion, and then the dawning understanding of why his former professor was behaving like a gaping fish. It was hard to blame Ron's slow reasoning, for it was not common practice to reintroduce oneself after a resurrection, especially to people one already knew. To Ron, he had simply been gone for a bit, and was now back with little worry. The rest of them, in their minds, had firmly removed his presence from the world, without any hope of a return.

Finally, Lupin spoke. Still very bewildered but with much more composure, he nodded at Ron with surprised affection. "You've done wonders for my hypertension this morning alone, Ron," he laughed, extending one hand to shake Ron's. Ron would have complied, if not for the object in his former professor's palm. Remus looked down, as if surprised by its presence. With an almost apologetic expression, he handed the folded newspaper to Arthur before capturing the young man's hand in a strong grip.

Just as Ron did, Hermione strained to see what held Arthur so enthralled. He whisked away from all prying eyes, however, and only softly encouraged Ron to his seat. Hermione sent a questioning glance at him when he only silently obeyed, and Ron shrugged with a slight frown. Arthur stayed in the living room, reading the front page quietly. Mrs. Weasley soon joined him.

"Harry, scoot over," Hermione attempted to murmur without Lupin noticing.

"No, Ginny'll kick me!"

"Well, so will I if you continue to snuggle my heel like that," she snapped.

"You mentioned Harry here, did you not?" Remus asked Ron, eyes fixated on his face. Hermione pitied him, for it was clear he was not used to such attention, and only squirmed uncomfortably under Lupin's concentrated scrutiny.

Then she stifled a giggle when Ron suddenly jumped, and shrugged with an overly innocent expression. "No," he denied casually. "It's just ... habit, saying that. Harry's around so much that I'm always surprised when he's not taking advantage of mum's generosity."

Hermione heard Harry give Ron another strike to his shin, and rolled her eyes when Ron gave his best friend a reprimanding kick.

"Bloody Weasleys," Harry painfully moaned.

"Harry, get out of there," Remus sighed, "I _am_ in the position to discipline you for your absence, but at least it won't be done physically."

"May I get that in writing?" Harry asked skeptically as he slowly emerged from under the table.

"I don't recommend it," Bill told the older man as he sank tiredly in Arthur's empty chair. "He'll use it later in court."

"Assuming that he'd survive the punishment any how," Charlie added.

Ginny observed her older brothers and the professor with some confusion. "Just how strict has the Hogwarts attendance policy grown these days?" she asked as she assumed her mother's seat to check on Lawrence.

"Attendance what?" a new voice asked with wonder. The twins leapt to their feet to greet their business partner as Lee Jordan stepped from the fire place.

"Lee!" Remus groaned, burying his face in his propped up hands. "Who the hell is looking after your students?"

"You can't yell at me," Lee protested as he shoved the Weasley brothers away and sat next to Percy with a friendly nod. Both Hermione and Remus sent him a censuring look and he raised his hands in surrender. "Well, technically you can, but it would be right hypocritical if you ask me. You dump your and Harry's students on me, so why can't I dump your students, Harry's students, and my students on Professor McGonagall?"

"Because it's unfair!" Hermione protested while the boys laughed at Jordan's reasoning. Her eyes narrowed as he helped himself to, what had to be, his second breakfast. "Don't you dare take a bite of that," she warned.

Jordan paused. "What else am I to do with food?"

"Put it down, help McGonagall with the overload, and return here when the day is done," she responded impatiently.

Imagine! Poor Professor McGonagall, with four classes' worth of students, and the headmaster missing? Hermione remembered finding one class tiresome enough. At the thought of four, she sincerely feared for her favourite professor's mental health.

When Remus only nodded his agreement–apparently not daring to contradict Hermione's steely reprimand–Lee Jordan rolled his eyes. He stood, dusted his robes off, and, as he passed, clapped Ron's shoulder warmly.

"Should I be taking you with me, then?" he asked with a smile.

Hermione frowned along with Ron, for she thought it was a rather casual welcoming for the long lost hero. But, apparently, he was not as bothered by the flippant greeting as she was, for he only shook his head with a laugh. "Nah. I've newspapers to read, you know."

"So have I," Lee laughed as he grabbed a handful of powder and stooped below the fireplace. "I only read aloud the headline this morning before Remus snatched it out of my hands. Paper cuts galore, and Madame Pomfrey refused to excuse me from class."

"Headline?" Percy repeated.

"Oy, just 'cause you want a tumble with the nurse is no reason to neglect students–" Fred was saying when a certain single mother gave him a sharp kick. Hermione frowned, for she was positive that she had warned them against that sort of vulgar conversation around Lawrence.

"Yeah, the headline. Not really original, in my opinion, but fitting," Lee laughed before screaming at the top of his lungs, "HOGWARTS PRISON INSTITU–"

"Hush," Molly snapped absently from the living room.

"What headline?" Percy asked Remus, who was accepting a cup of tea Hermione offered him.

"Well ..."

"Is that why you stormed in here," Charlie asked, sending curious glances to his parents, "all because of a tabloid story?"

"What's this got to do with Narcissa Malfoy?" Bill inquired, also watching his concerned parents with growing interest.

"It can't possibly be about Ron," George reasoned, idly taking baby steps closer and closer to the living room. "I mean, he just got here."

"And, he couldn't have told anybody, could you, Ron?" Fred asked sensibly, sending his little brother a piercing look.

Hermione stared at Ron anxiously as he pondered the question. "Just Stan," he answered with a shrug. "Is that bad?"

He seemed to be asking the room in general, but his blue eyes sought Hermione's for some strange reason. She suddenly found herself in a fondly familiar position of answerer, and, for one soft moment, could only grin as Ron laughed at himself.

Bothered by the noise—and, apparently, by the contents of the article—Mr. Weasley threw his family a mildly irritated look before leaving them altogether, to stand outside in the garden. Mrs. Weasley was momentarily torn, looking at her youngest son anxiously before darting out after her husband. The door clicked shut with barely any notice from the offspring. Only Hermione had seen the few seconds of doubt, and uneasiness began to pinch at her. Willingly, she allowed the Weasley siblings to distract her.

"Probably is, I reckon," he laughed. "But what name was I to give him? Neville Longbottom?"

"Idiotic thing to do," Ginny giggled with her older brother. Harry stuck his tongue out at her, which she returned with equal maturity.

"Why'd you tell?" Fred demanded, advancing on Ron with a grim expression. Hermione froze, just as the rest of them had, as the twin cuffed the back of Ron's head with no joviality whatsoever. She suspected the force was as harsh as the look in Fred's eyes, for Ron did not laugh, and only winced with obvious pain, clutching his injured skull as he stared at Fred hurtfully.

"What was that for, you wanker?"

"Have you no sense?" Fred was furious, so much so that even Remus only stared in silence. "Are you completely daft?"

"Leave him alone," Hermione cried out without hesitation as Fred raised his hand once more. He ignored her, and clasped Ron's shoulder with an unshakeable strength.

"We could have come up with a story," Fred said, teeth gritted, chest heaving as Ron regarded him with silent hostility. "We could have come up with something, if you had kept your big mouth shut. Now look, you stupid sod, there's already rumours. Already speculations. The least you could have done was have some common sense until we figured out a way to protect you."

Ron bolted to his feet, shoving Fred's hand away with a snarl. "I'm not going to lie, Fred. I don't give a damn what other people think. I'm not going to pretend to be somebody else, when I've been aching to be myself."

"Fuck your dignity," Fred scoffed. "And to hell with whatever righteous individualism you've latched onto. It's all shit, Ron, if you're summoned for interrogation."

"So they'll interrogate me," Ron snapped. "All right. Fine. I'll survive."

"It's not a case of whether you'll survive," Fred argued heatedly. "It's a matter of having to endure it all!"

"Fred," Ron sighed in exasperation, raking his hands through his hair. "Do you think I care about bloody principles after what I've just endured?"

Remus spoke up neutrally. "There's no guarantee that Ron will undergo the same process you two experienced. Prewett's in power now. He is a great deal more sensible than his proxy."

"But it was _his_ proxy," Percy pointed out, face set severely. "Acting under _his_ orders."

"We've no idea whether the orders were specific or simply guidelines," Charlie put in reasonably. "And Mr. Katya might have omitted the fact that the two suspects in question were Fred and George. Maybe, if Prewett had known—"

"Oh, come off it," Ginny scoffed darkly. "Prewett's mad for vengeance, everybody knows that. Browbeating adoptive relatives into satisfactory confessions for nonexistent crimes is merely a chore for him."

Hermione saw Harry raise a skeptical eyebrow at this, and so she assumed that it was a bit of exaggeration. In their latest book, the twins might have stretched the truth so far it could have shielded Hogwarts from the rain, but they gave no confession of any guilt for "nonexistent crimes."

Still, Hermione was a sensible girl. She could practically see the steam rising from Ginny's head, and made sure not to contradict her.

"Look," Bill cut in, aiming for cool logic, in hopes of spreading the rationality, "this is a premature discussion. Who's to say that an interrogation will even take place?"

"Wish I had something to contribute to the conversation," Harry murmured as seven Weasleys and one Lupin argued incessantly about secrecy and protocol.

"Me too," Hermione replied quietly. "But I don't know the procedures as well as they do."

"Neither do I. Then again, neither does Ron, and he seems to be holding his own well enough."

It was true. While it was dazzling and great fun to observe the Weasleys banter and laugh, it was frightening and breathtaking to watch the Weasleys during an out and out row. Because everybody had their own opinions as to what should have happened and what was to take place, the supportive arguments were fleeting and apt to switch sides. But two brothers seemed hell bent on combating each other, at least verbally. Fred never once agreed with Ron's point of view, and the youngest son did not spare his cutting tone for the elder sibling he had just forgiven the night before. Despite her ignorance of the family reunion, Hermione had worried that the two would not reconcile as easily as the others had.

Ron grew just as animated as Fred had, and there were a few moments when Remus and Harry exchanged understanding glances, for a few of the brothers grew so angry that they might have required physical separation.

"It's my damned decision to make who knows of my presence!"

"If you weren't such a selfish arse, you'd think of what we'd be forced to do when–"

"Why must you be so insensible? Why must you ruin this morning, with mum not ten feet from us?"

Hermione arose quietly, and bent beside the cradle Ginny had abandoned to join the heated exchange. She smiled slightly. He was a miraculous baby, her Lawrence, for, despite the uproar, he continued to slumber. He twitched when somebody's shout pierced their ears, but, other than that, he gave no sign of agitation. Hermione bent to give him a soft kiss. It was almost as if he refused to allow the Weasleys to annoy him.

"Better get him out of here," Harry whispered. "Take him upstairs. I'll fetch Mrs. Weasley to make them quiet down."

She was loath to pick him up, for that would certainly result in a long, wailing cry. But as Charlie thoughtlessly muttered an unnecessarily smarting insult, and Bill held back a livid Ginny, Hermione decided it was the best course of action. It was a wondrous thing, the Weasley temper. She thought she had seen the peak of it from Molly Weasley, but to see the siblings in their utmost fury ... she shook her head as she gently slid her hands under her baby's limp body. The irked whimpers were muffled against her shoulder as she swept past them and up the stairs. As she left the room, she thought she saw Ron throw her a concerned look, only to be distracted by an irate Fred.

Silly thing, love. It was what drove those seven to issue those callous words. They were simply manipulating each other, goading each other, making each other blind with rage for easier handling. And that lubricated persuasion would then be used to make them see that, really, each one was right and was only thinking about what was best for the rest of them.

Manipulation, if done right, caused the other to abandon logic, and thus, killed any viable arguments against their own wishes. It would work if one was slightly better at it than the other, but all adversaries were similarly equipped and knew each other too well. As Hermione quietly closed the door to Percy's room behind her, she thought she heard George offer a snide comment of Ginny and Harry's relationship. Harry would not like it, but was now too mature to deal with the petty insult. Ginny, however …

This was the only group in which such agonizing matters were allowed to be carelessly thrown out, Hermione decided as she scanned Percy's bookshelves. A family. Just as she and Harry were allowed to hurl the worst of the worst words to one another without fear of emotional severance, Bill was allowed to comment on Ron's embarrassing immaturity, and Ginny was allowed to remind Percy of his lack of good judgment. It was okay for Hermione to leave with her son, for there was no reason of true danger. They were verbally hurting each other, yes, but only out of love.

"Really, Percy," she muttered aloud. "Do you get any duller?"

Of course, it had been overly optimistic to hope that he had something to read to children in his impressive collection. But who on earth would want to write or read a book on trolls' grooming habits?

She jumped slightly when a loud, foreboding slam shook the house, and the tangle of shouts was suddenly silenced by the low, menacing voice of Molly Weasley. She could not make out the exact words, but appreciated the effect nonetheless. Within a few seconds, the sounds of a table being cleared replaced the unabashed rowing.

The small jerk of her surprise shook Lawrence from his dreams, and the baby boy blinked sleepily at her while she anxiously awaited his response. Even as the first few sniffles puffed out of his tiny lips, Hermione was already rocking him, singing softly and horribly off key, and wildly searching the room for a suitably distracting toy.

He had moved onto disgruntled mews when she noticed a figure beyond the window. Absently patting Lawrence's hiccupping back, she drew closer and squinted at the distance. Odd. What had possessed Arthur to walk, in such cold and under such circumstances?

A few more minutes of observation revealed the fact that he was not walking at all, but pacing. Great distances. It must have been disturbing, Hermione thought faintly as Lawrence moved on to intermittent barks of weeping. The article must have been very annoying.

She knew it ought to have been more than "annoying," but was puzzled as to why Arthur had allowed the matter to plague him so. If some trashy tabloid had declared Ron to be a resurrected Voldemort himself, there was no need to worry. Everybody knew the truth.

The footsteps were so swift and silent that Hermione hadn't yet fully turned away from the window before Ron was crouching before Percy's bookshelf as well, scanning the book titles with a tilted head.

He hadn't noticed her, not until Lawrence, after some misleading silence, erupted with a high pitched bawl. Ron jumped so suddenly that he dropped the book he had pulled out, and nearly lost his balance.

"Bloody he—"

"Try not to swear, please," Hermione requested, half amused and half worried. She had seen the title of the book in his hands, despite his cleverly subtle attempt to slip it under his shirt. Why was Ron researching magical maladies and cures?

"He's a boy, and Harry's his godfather," Ron pointed out with wry smile, "Swearing is inevitable."

"I plan to forestall it until the age of five, at least," she informed him primly. She stepped closer, and frowned slightly when Ron stepped back. "Why do you need that book?" she asked frankly.

Ron had the temerity to feign innocence. He looked about distractedly, asking in an overly bewildered tone, "What book?"

"That book you've hidden under your pyjama top," she answered, trying not to smile when he had the grace to blush. Ron patted his rectangular shaped stomach sheepishly.

"To … erm … the bench is wobbly. It's always been, but while Perce was off on his wanker phase, we always used this one to steady it. I think that, in light of his momentary emotional forgiveness rubbish, he wouldn't mind so much if I used it again."

"That's …"

Ron stared expectantly at her while Lawrence continued to cry.

"That's a perfectly good reason," she conceded. He smiled, only to have the happy curve freeze when Hermione added, "But it wasn't that book. It was the biography of Rowena Ravenclaw." She smiled happily as, with one hand, she reached for the lengthy novel. "I remember," she chirped.

Ron stared dully at her as he wordlessly accepted the book, and placed the medical study back onto the shelf. "Of course you do," he muttered under his breath. Ron's brow furrowed, and nodded to the infant in her arms. "Am I the only one aware of the ear bleeding shrieks?"

"What? Oh!" She laughed, wondering how on earth she had grown accustomed to it. Hermione kissed Lawrence's tear stained cheek, murmured nonsense against his forehead, and hugged him as tight as possible without smothering him. When badly sung melodies and rigorous rocking did not pacify him, Hermione found that skin contact to be an effective balm. Sometimes it did not work, and Lawrence was determined to let the heavens know how unhappy his mum had made him. But other times, such as these, he smacked his lips loudly and slowly, accepting her apology with dwindling watery gurgles.

It wasn't until Lawrence had ended his lovely song that Hermione realised that Ron had been observing her in silence. Instinctively, she formed her lips to tease him, and smile at him, but abruptly hesitated. Ron was not smiling. He was not happy at all. For some reason, the sight of her comforting her child had made his face shutter into a blank mask, and the eyes that focused on her friendly face were nothing but hard, icy sapphires.

"Ron—" she began haltingly, not even knowing what to say. What did he expect? An apology for loving her son? The consideration to hide away whenever she felt the need to show affection for Malfoy's baby?

The one sound jolted him from apathetic reverie, and, Ron swiftly replaced the coldly nonchalant expression with one of stilted cheer. "Mum says I'm to go to St. Mungo's. Oddly enough, everybody's invited—though what could be so enjoyable about a medical exam, I'll never know. Just thought I'd let you know, in case you were seeking a fantastically dull way to spend your day."

She smiled uneasily as he tucked the book under his arm, and shifted Lawrence in a more comfortable hold. "Of course I'll come, Ron. When are we to leave?"

"As soon as I'm ready," he answered blithely as he turned away from her. "Mum says that if anybody's going to examine me, it's best that I present a clean body. 'Thirty minutes in the shower, and no less!'" he laughed.

Hermione felt the odd pull to laugh with him, if only to assure him of her willingness to the plan. But with the chilling image of his unmoved face sharply present in her mind, she found that she could only wordlessly offer a faint smile as he opened the door and strode into the hall way. As if sensing her growing disquiet, Ron stepped backwards slightly only a few seconds after disappearing from view.

"You're … you're very good at that," he told her gruffly, eyes once more riveted to the infant in her arms.

At what, Ron, her mind asked faintly, bewildered by his reluctance and her fear.

He elaborated without the need for her vocal question. "You're a very good mother."

Then, as if the admission physically pained him, he looked away and proceeded at a much quicker pace.

She was left standing in the room, confused by her own feelings. For her feelings were that Ron was not with her, and she was grateful for his departure.

It was traitorous, no doubt. But it was right as well.

"Oh fu … fudge," she swore tiredly as she marched out of the room and down the stairs. Unheard, her mind was saying a great deal more.

_Oh fuck it all. How the hell did I—Hermione Granger, girl who knew everything—become one of those clueless women who does not even know her own feelings?_

Out loud, she continued, "Fudge, fudger, fudgity fudge—"

"Where?" Harry asked eagerly. Her feet had carried her to the sitting room, where Harry was simultaneously watching television and reading a newspaper. As she sat beside him on the couch, he abandoned the journal to steal Lawrence from her arms. Like any hypocritical, capricious son would do, Lawrence awakened immediately, only to blink complacently at Harry's goofy expression.

"Ron's acting strange," she replied wearily.

"No wonder. Did you see this?"

Harry handed her the article, where the blazing headlines read, "Ronald Weasley: the Boy who Died."

"Christ," Hermione breathed softly, quickly scanning the article.

"I never thought that Shunpike could read, so reading about him is something to adjust to—" Harry was laughing. Lawrence emitted an alarming grunt, and Harry once more traded objects.

Hermione's eyes never left the blaring, capitalized words, swallowing repeatedly though no bile arose in her throat. One would think that the press had no impact on the trio any longer, and libel was something so common Hermione rarely felt the urge to legally retaliate. Yet, sometimes, it was like a bold, cruel slap in the face to read how utterly wrong the outsiders viewed them. How completely skewed their opinions were when it came to the matters of the unworthy and the worthy. The insinuating support for Draco Malfoy had irritated Hermione but she had expected it, really. The suspicion of Harry was a matter with which she had long been accustomed. The unkind sullying of her name had been commonplace since adolescence.

But to have Ron viewed as a freakish wonder, a character of unknown origin and motivation, or a long-absent coward …

It made her heart ache. It made her teeth clench. It made her cry for him.

"Here now," Harry spoke up, alarmed. Hermione wondered if he kept all pockets stuffed with a handkerchief or two, just in case his best mate decided to fill her daily sobbing quota within his presence. "You haven't yet read the article," he chuckled slightly, as if her quiet brief sniffling was ever so comical.

"Oh," she retorted, swallowing a lump in her throat. "And I suppose you'll tell me that it doesn't paint Ron as a macabre miracle? That they're not immediately suspicious of his whereabouts? That they don't cast doubt on his heroic death and consequent honours?"

As the words spilled out, Harry's smile had faded slowly, replaced by a tight lipped, impatient frown. He rustled the newspapers loudly, as if hoping to drown out the truth of her words. Safely hidden by the papers, he spoke from behind horrific title. "Even if it does—"

Which meant that it did.

"The article doesn't matter any way. We know the truth."

"Yes. And how fortunate that the world is solely occupied by people who know the truth."

"Cheeky, isn't she?" Fred interrupted as he quickly sauntered in. Like Harry, he committed infantile theft, only to practically toss the baby back into her arms when Lawrence expressed discomfort.

"Not the word I'd use," Harry said, still nose deep in the inky prejudice. "More like depressing."

"What are you doing here?" she asked Fred pointedly, eagerly taking up a distraction.

Fred stared at her in surprise. "Er … you do realise that I've lived here, don't you? I mean, I know I've moved out, but technically I have more right to be here than you have." He sighed, and shook his head, aiming a bewildered look towards Harry. "Honestly. And they claimed she was head girl material?"

"I meant," she cut in before Harry could respond, "what are you doing here? I know George is outside with your father. So who is feeding Crookshanks?"

Her two friends had dropped their mouths open in surprise. Hermione frowned slightly as she observed her child engage in the exciting activity of drooling once more. _Once more_, she thought dryly, _the males have forgotten my lovely little cat._

In the silence during which Fred scraped for a proper excuse, they heard a yelp and the consequent laughing of one elder brother.

"Charlie, leave the plumbing alone so Ron may have a decent washing," Mrs. Weasley called from one of the upper levels.

But at least he was forgotten for a very good reason, she amended with a smile before settling a reproachful gaze to her cat sitter.

Terrible thing, the necessary separation of cats and newborns. Harry insisted upon it, and she was not entirely sure he had taken up the cause for safety reasons. She had always suspected that Harry found Crookshanks' adorable midnight yowls mildly annoying. Also, Arthur had absently told him an old wives' tale about cats creeping into cradles and sitting on newborns' chests; ever since then, Harry had viewed her mangy beast with an unfriendly eye.

"And I suppose nobody got around to feeding him last night, did they?"

"Well," Fred blustered, standing. "It's not as if we forgot for just any stupid reason—"

"I know, Fred," she assured him with a playful smile. That playful smile became slightly tighter when Hermione added, "But, please, can you see to him now? He must be famished, poor thing."

"I expected being told off," Fred admitted suspiciously. "I think Ron's return is improving you already," he chirped before Apparating, thus avoiding any reprimand for his cheeky remark.

"In more interesting news," Harry told her before she could badger him about the article, "I am, apparently, not in tropical paradise. I am teaching at Hogwarts, I am overly blunt with my students, I look dashing in green, and Frederica Fringleton is going to be severely punished for providing this crap interview." He folded the paper noisily, and turned to her with a light, amused smile.

"You cannot punish freedom of speech."

"No. But I can stop feigning blindness every time she passes notes in class. Her undoubtedly lewd notes."

"Sometimes I think you'll never get over your prejudice of Slytherins," she sighed unhappily.

"I'm not prejudiced against houses any more," he retorted soberly. Hermione frowned, not expecting such a serious note, when Harry grinned. "Just sheer stupidity."

"And yet you manage to avoid self-hatred," Ginny laughed as she settled into Fred's vacated chair. "Good for you."

"Bordering on clever, Ginny," Harry replied warmly. He wagged a finger at her. "Keep it up, and, one day, you might be as funny as I am." His ex girl friend had been ready to spout a reply when a cheesy, eighties song beeped into the small gap of conversation, and both females watched Harry reach for his mobile with an air of annoyance.

"Again, Harry?" Ginny commented with a sigh. "Why won't you answer it?"

Harry did not bother to answer her, and was on the verge of turning the contraption off altogether when Hermione snatched it out of his grip. He had been ready to engage in juvenile wrestling for the prize when he remembered the infant in her arms, just in time.

"Would you answer a ring from The Evil One?" he asked them childishly, crossing his arms.

Hermione thought he had been exaggerating, and so was amusingly surprised to see "The Evil One" flashing on the small phone screen. She thought carefully as the song continued to play. It was unlikely for Harry to have Voldemort on his address book…last time she checked, Draco did not have a mobile phone …

"Oh Harry, for god's sake," she hissed in exasperation, answering the phone.

"Why the flaming fuck haven't you answered my calls?" the other woman demanded.

"Because he's an arse and there's no known cure," Hermione told Poppy apologetically. Harry sat up straighter to perhaps protest the diagnosis, but Ginny assured him that it was quite true and there was no reason to contradict the solid truth.

Harry did not like what Hermione was doing with her face as she listened to the termagant. Her eyebrows were doing that horrible, drawing-together position, and her eyes were narrowing in the most alarming manner, and she even gasped in her most offended way.

"Did you strand her at the airport?" she demanded, holding the mobile to her shoulder with one hand and still cradling Lawrence with the other. Observing her difficulty, Ginny moved to take the baby into her arms.

"No. For that would have required me transporting her there, and you know that I've been with you all morning," he replied, proud to have such a prompt and honest answer.

"But did you tell her that you would provide transportation home?"

"Yes," he answered with a shrug.

"Harry!"

"What, Hermione? I paid for the damn tickets, didn't I?"

"She meant the transportation to her flat, Harry," Hermione clarified after a few more angry-eyebrow action.

"Oh for chrissake," he groaned. "Tell her to get a damn taxi, and foot me the bill later. Knowing the evil little dwarf, she'll circle London twice just to spite me."

Hermione relayed the news, exchanged a few friendly and excited words of welcome, ignored Harry when he reminded her of wasted minutes, and then hung up when Lawrence showed some fidgety movement. "She says they had a lovely time," Hermione cooed to her son, who did not care in the slightest. "And that their problems were resolved. Oh, and that she'll circle London four times since you gave her the idea."

"By problems being resolved, "Harry queried suspiciously, "what does she mean?"

Hermione shrugged as she unbuttoned the top button. "I've no idea. It didn't sound like she wanted to discuss it really. Besides, Harry, they are her children—" She broke off when Harry stood, apparently meaning to call the woman back when he noticed her movement.

"Hermione!"

"What?"

"You're doing that … that… well, you're doing it again!"

"Harry, really. Most pediatricians recommend breast feeding for a year, so you must become accustomed to it—"

"No—I mean, well, yes, I know that. It's just that … Ron's here."

"Yes, thank you, Harry. And here I thought that handsome, ginger bloke was merely a passing visitor," she responded dryly with a smile. "Your point is?"

"Well … " He turned to Ginny for support, and found no assistance there. "If I'm uncomfortable with it, Hermione, think of how he'll react. I mean—he's not exactly happy, is he?"

Hermione's fingers stilled on her third button as Harry added the last, half whispered question. Her first instinct had been to harshly contradict him, and defend Ron—a habit that seemed as unnecessary as it was common these days. But Harry's urgent green eyes prompted her to remember what had occurred only a few minutes ago, and the questionable darkness haunting Ron's normally light gaze. While she was not afraid of Ron's embarrassment when it came to the nourishment of her baby, she did fear furthering any hurt upon him. With a small, uneasy smile, Hermione nodded, and asked Ginny for use of her bedroom. As she left, Hermione thought she heard the faint beginnings of another argument between Harry and The Evil One.

By the time Lawrence had been satisfied and she had just finished buttoning up her dress, she was startled to hear quick, rapid footsteps just beyond the door.

"Locked?" she heard Ron say, bewildered. "Locked?" he repeated. "You're a little girl! There's no reason for little girls to lock their bedrooms!"

Stifling a giggle, Hermione quickly moved to stop the rant. He had his hand fist raised for some undoubtedly annoying older brother knocking when his eyes widened. Ron dropped his raised arm and, if she wasn't mistaken, slumped his shoulders with disappointment.

"Are you stalking me?" he demanded with a teasing, if not exasperated smile.

"If I was, you have to admit that I'm pretty successful at it. I even beat you to your destinations."

Ron rolled his eyes and stepped around her hesitantly. "That's a nice dress. I didn't see it properly before."

"Thank you. Would you believe I knitted it?" she tested curiously. She hadn't, but she wanted to see just how indulgent he still was.

"Absolutely not," he chuckled as he surreptitiously checked the cluttered desk. "One does not graduate from woolly bladders to stunning dresses so fast." He apparently gave up the search, and shrugged with his hands in his pockets. "Then again, maybe it's not the dress. Maybe it's you."

"Hmmm. Aesthetic compliment, yet knitting insult. I'm torn."

"Yes," he wryly agreed, hedging around the bed posts, eyes sweeping the floor for hidden material. "Amazing how this dead boy's managed to confuse Hermione Granger."

The flirtatious grin that had come to her lips so naturally froze suddenly as Ron checked behind the door. "That's not funny," she told his back quietly. He did not even pause, only sparing her a mildly interested glance as he opened Ginny's closet. "Don't call yourself that again."

He reached up and pulled a book from a high shelf. "All right," he told her with a slight shrug. "But if it doesn't bother me, it shouldn't bother you."

She wished it wasn't so easy to lose her temper with him. Perhaps she did it so easily because the past had taught her that he could handle it. Or maybe she knew that it was the only way to draw an equally heated, brutally honest reaction from him. Either way, she sidestepped quickly before he could leave, so that a mother and her baby blocked the way.

"I'm so sick of that attitude," she snapped. Ron observed her pinched expression and looked away with a discomforted sigh. "What are we going to do? Declare it as nothing and let everybody think the worst of you?"

"The worst of me," he scoffed, using his shoulder to squeeze between her and the door frame. "Why is calling me dead, the worst? After all," he added as Hermione distractedly moved Lawrence to her shoulder and began to pat his back gently, "it's practically true."

She set her face, hating to be so callous so soon after his return, but unable to say anything besides the truth to him. Something about Ron always made her want to be as frank as possible with him, and vice versa. Even when feelings were in danger of being smarted, their thoughts were voiced without deception.

"Yes. Self pity once again," she told him in a hard voice. "When will you outgrow that?"

He had been about to turn away into the hall way when he paused, and faced her once more. A lesser person might have backed away when he bent slightly to meet her eyes, and a person who did not know his true character might have escaped when he loomed so close she could count his red eye lashes. How fortunate that she was neither.

"Perhaps," he told her in a low, intense voice, jaw flexing, "when I've had the opportunity to grow."

It might have been a good point if she had not been studying his sharp, angled face so closely. Yes, yes, he had lost two years, no opportunity to mature, et cetera, et cetera … but he had aged. Physically at least. Hermione thought she must have startled him when she only stepped closer, but did not bother to explain her actions. Lawrence let out a small burp and she only continued to pat his back in distraction.

"Your scar."

"Which one?" he asked, both dumbfounded and suspicious.

"Most of them. All of them … that one above your eye."

"Yes?" he asked, hand flying up to check the skin.

"It's nearly invisible."

"Yes," he shrugged, shaking his head in confusion. "Harry's made forehead scars passé."

"Ron—don't joke. It wasn't like that last night—er, this morning. I remember. It was still sort of red, and now there's just white scar tissue … And your lip!"

Her hand had risen to gently brush against the scar when, without warning, he turned away once more, book in hand. "Don't."

Hermione pulled her hand suddenly, belatedly aware of the intimacy such contact would have provoked. Not that intimacy with Ron was a terrible thing …

"Ron, what's happening to you?"

Her eyes fell to the collar of his jumper, and how the ends of his hair fell slightly past it. Last night, she remembered liking how the red wisps had curled slightly a few inches above the collar of his shirt. Goodness, it was nearly as long as Draco's now!

He shrugged again, making a frustrated Hermione wish all boys' shoulders were immovable.

"I don't know, honestly. Ask Harry, he'd probably know the particulars."

"Ron—"

He turned just before he descended the stair well, and lost his casual expression when he saw her face. "Merlin, it's difficult to leave you," he joked as he sauntered closer. Ron bent at the knees again to meet her eyes, and smiled slightly. "It's not a bad thing if I do age so swiftly, Hermione. If anything, I'm taller than the twins by another inch."

"It can't possible be healthy," she argued firmly.

"It can't be healthy to age?" Ron laughed. "Well, I'm sure I'll agree during my mid life crisis. Otherwise, I don't mind catching up with everybody else. Besides, I'm going to Mungo's today, aren't I? And reading up on things on the way?" He waved the pilfered book under her nose, which she saw to be another magical medical study.

Hermione remained unconvinced. Surely, if rapid aging had any negative effect, Harry wouldn't have chosen that particular spell to perform, would he? Then again, Harry had simply wanted Ron back in any way, shape, or form. Perhaps the condition was not so important as the presence …

"Is that fun or something?" Ron asked curiously, watching Hermione encourage burping from the already burped baby.

"What?" Hermione noticed the aim of his gaze and quickly repositioned Lawrence in her arms.

"Never mind. Look, dad wanted to see me before we left…so I'm going now. Definitely." His socked feet were already moving towards the stair well again, looking at her expectantly with each cautious step. "Here I go, Hermione … first step."

"And?"

"Well, isn't this the point where you say something sad or look at me sad and I hurry back to your side."

"Is it really?"

"Yes. We're stuck in this vicious cycle of attempted escape and perpetual worry. We'll live before Ginny's room forevermore. So go on, say it. Say something to prevent me from ever leaving."

While she was still somewhat irked to have his joking dismiss her fretting so easily, Hermione was relieved to see that his humour still came so easily. Romance that seemed so natural in the darkness of night tended to cringe and shy away to stark light of day. How lovely for Ron to flirt like this, despite … well, everything.

"Don't hesitate," Ron warned her, taking another step down. "The rent ought to be dirt cheap, and, this way, we can monitor the scurvy fellows who dare to enter her room. Harry, for example."

"You know they've broken up, Ron."

"Only because he's an arse. All right, young lady, third step. Say something, or we break the cycle."

She swallowed a giggle, sent a prim look, and told him, "We will discuss this later."

He actually winced as he trudged out of sight. "I'd prefer the never ending cycle of worry to that," she heard him mutter.

The actual arrangements of the departure were far more raucous than the decision to depart. Fred had yet to return from feeding Hermione's cat, Molly had been speaking to Arthur, aghast to learn that Ron's clothes were a few inches too small, and Harry paced in the garden, speaking on his mobile. Things decidedly took a turn for the worse when Oliver appeared, causing a near apoplectic fit from Remus, and rather unsubtle annoyance from Ginny's brothers. By the time Hermione decided to use the Baby is Sleeping card—which she was always reluctant to do, for it seemed like such a cheap way to buy silence—Remus had escorted Oliver out, Ginny was once more defending her slightly older boyfriend to her brothers, and Ron had been forced into his father's clothes.

"Why the hell couldn't you just keep it together?" Ron was mumbling as they left the house. The brothers had decided to use their own modes of transportation to the hospital, while it was decided that Ginny, Hermione, and the possibly injured party would ride in the back of the formerly banned flying Anglia. Ron's parents and sister strode far ahead of them as Hermione and Harry tarried, waiting for Ron to lock the door behind them.

"Beg your pardon? Poppy started it. Grown woman, for god's sake, and can't even—"

"I meant," Ron interrupted impatiently, quickly striding to walk between them as they followed the others, "with Ginny. Now look, she's dating a geriatric."

"Oh for goodness' sake," Hermione sighed. She looked where her friend stood, coddling Lawrence, as the parents settled in the front seat. "You two liked Oliver well enough when he was your captain. And, really, it's high time you come to terms with the fact that Ginny is a grown young woman, and a very sensible one at that. Being your baby sister does not mean she is still of the infantile behaviour you two are so accustomed to—"

Her speech had been tragically foiled when Ginny, upon sniffing the air with a distinctly displeased expression, let out a squeal and ran like mad to practically shove Lawrence in Hermione's arms.

"Did the exact same thing when she was five and her dolly needed changing," Ron commented with an irksomely smug expression. Hermione rolled her eyes, and reached for the baby bag she had forced Harry to carry.

"Change Lawrence in the car," Ginny suggested as Hermione turned away.

"There's no room," Harry protested.

"Why? Come to think of it, why are you coming with us? Where is the Firebolt? I had been looking forward to riding with you, actually."

Ron paused, and gave his baby sister a knowing look. "You are extremely lucky neither of the twins is present for that comment."

"I lost it," Harry supplied flippantly, only watching as Hermione and Ron returned to the house to take care of infant duty. He gestured to the waiting parents to wait a few moments.

"Just like you lost your scar, the last year, and a good portion of your fortune?" Ginny asked cheekily.

"Yes, just like that," Harry answered indifferently, inwardly wondering how the hell his financial records had become so accessible.

"Are you ever going to supply an answer for the swarm of questions surrounding your strange behaviour?" she asked.

Harry, who had been attempting to find the Anglia sitting in the distance absolutely fascinating and ultimately failing miserably, now looked down at Ginny and gave a half smile. "Damn you. What happened to that worshipping gullibility I found so convenient?" She did not answer, and only crossed her arms stubbornly. "You want an answer?" he sighed.

Harry turned, and watched Ron shoulder the baby bag from Hermione as they crossed the threshold. The freckled expression was not one of concern or of ingratiating kindness. He had simply taken on the burden without the realisation that it was a burden or a favour at all. That half smile sitting on Harry's gaunt face developed into a full fledged one as Hermione thanked him, and Ron looked up with a puzzled expression, apparently wondering the reason.

"All answers lead to him, I suppose," Harry shrugged as he escorted Ginny to the car.

"You gave up the Firebolt for him?" Ginny asked, sliding into the back seat.

"In a way."

"Would you have ever given up the Firebolt for me, while we were dating?" Ginny wheedled.

Harry squirmed in his seat, watching the other pair's slow progress and silently cursing the both of them to hell. Then his eyes darted to the front mirrors, whose reflections showed two parents who seemed so distracted that they had to be entirely focused. "Erm…"

"I mean, you wouldn't even break Quidditch practise for a studying date, I recall, so to give up the broom, on account of the boy who did not have to endure your awkward-as-arse dancing—"

"Ginny!" Harry bit out, highly embarrassed. He was certain such accusations would have him pushed out the door when the altitude proved fatal.

She dissolved into a fit of giggles by the time her brother and her friend arrived, and was forced to collect the scattered bits when her loud laughing caused Lawrence to begin his unhappy wailing fit. Readily, Hermione left Lawrence in Ginny's arms.

It was Charlie who grabbed Ron's arms and pulled the gangly creature from his out of the car and onto the pavement when they arrived at St. Mungo's. By the time Harry had shoved Hermione out the door and delivered her son into her arms to assist Ginny out of the vehicle, the Weasley boys were gone, with the parents soon following.

Hermione hadn't known what to expect while waiting. The waiting area seemed deplorably distant from the room where Ron had been shown in. His freckled face was nonchalant as he bid them good bye, though Hermione had watched the shadow of a frown flicker over his face as his mother bombarded the physician with questions as the mother and son ambled down the corridor. The remaining family, friend, and ex fiancée watched in silence as the newly returned hero turned a corner and escaped their view. A fretful Molly, of course, had followed and shut the door behind her, only to be reluctantly showed out five minutes later.

What happened during those missing minutes was nothing short of anxiously dull. Straining to remain calm and reasonable, she purged the paranoid diagnoses from her mind and instead focused on Lawrence, and Lawrence's comfort. It was easy to keep one's mind distracted with such an endeavor when Bill desired an audience with the infant, and showed threatening signs of following his father's irritating habit of tossing babies into the dangerous thin air.

Said father was nowhere to be found. He had willingly lingered at one of the important desks that Hermione abhorred, for no other reason than their repugnant lack of organization and speediness, and told them to continue while he sorted out the paper work. More than one Weasley child had been suspicious of his overly bright smile as he encouraged their departure, but, because Molly insisted the impending health examination was far more important than paranoid theories, they had left him a few stories down.

Harry asked the twins of their neglect of the shop, which gave Percy the opportunity to spout not-so-subtle snipes at their lack of steadfastness. Annoyed, George replied that the Skiving Professor had no right to remark on anybody's lack of consistency, at which the errant professor frowned and reminded all present company that Lee Jordan was not present, and it was not right to speak ill of those who could not defend themselves.

Poppy called once, but it was a brief call, for Harry had picked up, emitted a greeting, and then dropped his jaw once the presumably rude message had been heard. He then ground his teeth, dialed another number, and left their company to return her kindness without fear of offending virgin ears.

"What is taking so long?" Charlie wondered.

"He is a medical wonder," Percy said with so much condescension Hermione thought that Mrs. Weasley had rolled her eyes.

"Yes, thank you," Bill scoffed. "I just hadn't expected the examination to take … " He glanced at his watch, and scratched his head. "Two and a half bloody hours."

"Thirty seven minutes, really," Ginny murmured, making bizarre yet entertaining faces at Lawrence. "So, technically, it's like sixty percent of the hour—"

"As much as everybody cares of mathematical chronology," George sighed, head resting on his mother's shoulder in a state of pitiable boredom, "I'd rather speak of something more interesting. Such as what happens after this dreary appointment."

"I had been wondering the same thing," Hermione admitted. She was seated beside Ginny, and occasionally ran her fingers through Lawrence's soft hair. "Dumbledore told me that anybody who participated in the war had graduated, so there's no worries there. But I remember that Ron wasn't so certain about becoming an Auror when—"

She paused, and frowned slightly.

"Er …" Fred, who sat on Molly's other side, said, "I believe George and I were wondering about everybody's plans for lunch. Free?" he asked his elder brothers. Only Percy appeared somewhat reluctant, for he still hadn't owled his reason for his absence at his new job.

When had Ron told her his hesitation in applying? Hermione sat back against the old, worn cushions, puzzled. His enthusiasm for the scheme was certainly as abundant as Harry's when their seventh year began. And, when discussing this future occupation, Ron would tell her things that he was far too embarrassed to tell Harry. How this would be the one thing his brothers hadn't done. He would speak in excited whispers how this would be the very first venture for which no other Weasley had set the bar. Ron would tell her, while the common room fire dimmed to intimate embers, that, even if he failed horribly as an Auror, at least he had done it. At least he had done it without influences or shadows of his elder brothers.

But that had changed, Hermione recalled faintly as she bit her lip. Her mind felt the faintest brushes of a long dead conversation, one that inexplicably made her heart shudder and freeze. Some time after the seventh year start and before the first battle, Ron had lost sight of his goals.

"_Maybe …" _Ron kept saying in an uneasy voice, echoing in her mind._ Maybe._

"Mum, let me have a go at that," a desperately listless Fred asked, reaching for Molly's latest knitting project.

"You don't know how to knit," Bill remarked, amused as Molly refused to relinquish the material.

"Where is Arthur?" Molly asked straining to look down both corridors. Their sitting area was situated in a corner, so that passersby constantly rounded the corner and were surprised to see the red haired clan watching them with avid curiosity. She slapped at her son's grasping hands, and, out of sheer habit, reached into the pocket of her coat to hand him a sweet. Fred looked down at the token of distraction, torn between offense and amusement, and finally unwrapped the confection to half it with his little sister.

"Right here."

Then, before any body could react, Arthur and a visitor came strolling down the hall and approached the lolling assembly.

Hermione's first instinct had been to retrieve and then hug Lawrence closer to her, to shield him from the inevitable uproar. And Lawrence's first reaction to that was an annoyed mew.

The Weasleys were agog. More specifically, the twins were utterly speechless. Fred had stood, blinking several times, opening his mouth but closing it with no properly formed word. George looked as if a swarm of bees had flown into his mouth, and was busy biting back his stinging words although it pained him to do so. Percy had also stood, but with more sensible intentions. He had been moving towards the door through which Ron had entered with the most inquisitive and comfortingly protective air when Arthur's stern look silently forbade any possible eavesdropping.

"Harold?" Molly asked, standing as well, and handing her knitting behind her. An irritated Fred grabbed it, as he was closest, and handed it to Ginny.

"Molly," their Minister of Magic greeted her warmly. Prewett made his rickety way through the dumbfounded family, offering friendly nods to each offspring he passed, and receiving none in return. Even the grasping Percy could not offer anything except a baffled glance as the adoptive, distant relative gave him a friendly hello before stepping before Molly Weasley.

Hermione observed that Molly had only faintly returned the kiss he gave on her rosy cheek, and that the mother only rigidly returned the smile Prewett beamed down upon her.

"So this is a happy day, I hear," he said warmly. He grasped Molly's shoulders in what Hermione could only interpret as an awkward hug, and turned to survey the rest of their assembly. "The prodigal son returns."

"And stays," Fred added, not loud enough to be defiant, yet not low enough to be insolent either. Hermione turned slightly to meet his eyes, and Fred spared the smallest of harmless grins. He shrugged, as if he could not help commenting.

"Of course," Prewett agreed, not bothering to cast the speaker a glance. "Arthur? Shall I?"

Arthur, sensing the excess bewilderment emanating from his family, nodded with a tight smile. Hermione assumed that he had acquired the information from the front desk, for Harold Gerald Prewett the First moved towards the door a few metres down the hall way without the need for direction, and, when he knocked, he had been let in without delay.

The startling claps of footsteps were heard once more, and nine pairs of eyes turned in silent apprehension as Harry arrived.

He did not notice the tension straight away. "Mr. Weasley," he laughed, pocketing the mobile. "I was wondering where you went, sir."

"Erm…dad," Ginny spoke up timidly. "That was our uncle."

"Yes," Arthur agreed tiredly, sinking into one seat.

"The very uncle whom we all loathe and despise?" George added indignantly.

"I don't recall that exact description," Molly lightly scolded, shuffling closer to her husband. "Arthur, I can't say I…well, this is an unexpected—"

"Why the bloody hell is he here?" Charlie demanded.

"Don't talk like that to your father," Molly hissed.

"But really dad," Bill began haltingly, "I find it hard to understand why you'd want to just serve Ron up like that, catching him unawares—"

"He's not a criminal," Hermione interrupted, unable to oppress the impassioned plea. "You boys are acting as if he's done something wrong, returning, and he hasn't, so it isn't so terrible if H.G. Prewett was to come. Ron has nothing to hide so…"

"I'm terribly sorry," Harry cut in hastily. He sent an apologetic look to Hermione, and she sensed that the only reason he had so rudely interrupted was because he feared that she would near tears…which, considering the recent history, was very likely. "But what are we speaking of?"

"Dear Uncle Harold has dropped by," Fred intoned, flopping back on his seat. Pitying her elder brother and his apparent misery, Ginny gently untangled Lawrence from his mother's arms and handed the baby to the twin as a means of distraction. Larry partially succeeded.

"Harold Gerald?" Harry asked, equally dumbfounded.

"Prewett," Hermione added absently.

"The one and only." Arthur smiled reassuringly, slipped his hands into his pockets, and nodded with the appearance of convincing himself. Of what, Hermione could not possibly guess.

"It's best this way. Gerald does not want a repetition of…past offenses, and has come to see for himself whether Ron is due for questioning. Besides, the longer—"

"So if Ron behaves there's no reason to worry?" George asked suspiciously.

"When does Ron not behave?" Arthur wanted to know with sincere surprise.

"I don't see why he's allowed in there and I'm not," Molly huffed, marching towards the door once more. They all waited tensely as that pleasantly plump hand reached for the knob, only to find the door swinging open once more. Hermione, who had been seated directly across from the room, leaned slightly to see the occupants. The doctor had been putting something away in an envelope, and Ron was pulling on his under shirt. Then the green, linty suit of one awkwardly arranged man blocked her view.

Her eyes traveled from the badly pressed trousers, up to the badly fitting coat, and up to the bizarrely formed face. She had expected some goofy vacancy in his eyes. If not that, then Hermione had braced herself for some of that renown thirst for vengeance she had heard so much about. If mental absence or emotional broiling were not displayed, then Hermione Granger fully expected a stern, reluctant, and fully business-like expression, one that every single minister was required to pull out during the unpleasant but necessary deeds. Even the mad ministers.

While it would be cliché to suggest that collective gasp had taken place once every person had observed Harold Gerald Prewett the First's timidly grateful visage, it would be very close the truth. Hermione could not help but gape at the change open nervousness had made in the man, making him appear five years younger.

Just as Ron had done during the trip, he fidgeted. The minister clenched his fist, moved both left and right as if ignorant of his destination, and then attempted to shove his hands into his pockets. Miraculously, he missed the openings in his coats, leaving the others a safe and much needed opportunity to let out a small laugh as he nearly fell due to his own clumsiness. Just as the door nearly shut behind him, he turned, caught the handle, and nodded at Ron.

"Thank you," he said firmly, with a hopeful gleam in his eyes so bright it looked as if tears were helping them shine.

Ron, in turn, tucked the under shirt into the waistline of his trousers, and shrugged off the gratitude with an embarrassed, annoyed look. Harold Gerald nodded again, firmly, and shut the door. He was off with his rickety, unsteady gait, half way down the hall, when Charlie's indignant noise stopped him.

"Oh!" He smacked his palm to his forehead, and half turned with the same, absurd smile on his face. "That's right. No need for any sort of investigation. And I'll try to fend off the press as long as legally possible, yeah? That is what you proposed, Arthur?"

Mr. Weasley looked as if ready to protest, and Hermione watched with surprise as he blustered, flustered, and finally shrugged, nodding. It was clear that, whatever they had discussed—and, come to think of it, Hermione wondered _when_ they had the time—the looming problems of Ron's return, the proposal of zero investigation and assistance with the media had not been broached so thoroughly. Yet with both awe and appreciation pouring like tidal waves from his family, Arthur could not help but agree with the minister's pressing, smiling proposition.

Still, Hermione was not surprised to see that Mr. Weasley could not restrain some of the truth. Honest to a fault. "But I don't recall specifically asking about—"

"Ah, of course you don't," Prewett sighed with an exaggerated air of impatience. Gone was the shining gratitude from his eyes, and the familiar fog of pleasant insanity seeped into his brown gaze. If she wasn't mistaken, Hermione thought she saw bits of dust and lint flying as he shook his head, turning away. "That is why I am the minister, Weasley. I can hear things that aren't really there."

"I'd hate to say this … " Harry began in a frightened, slow voice as they watched him saunter away. "For it sounds horribly Uncle Vernon-like, but, really. With a minister like that, this country's gone to the dogs."

"He can hear things that aren't there?" Percy repeated in a frustrated panic. "A man of his mental health can become minister, and I had to wallow in unemployment for months on end?"

"Right, like you're that psychologically balanced," they heard Ron retort as he opened the door.

"Ron, doesn't the doctor have to give you leave to—" Hermione began knowingly.

"No," he smiled, adjusting his shirt.

"You weren't there for nearly long enough," Charlie accused.

"Yes I was," Ron contradicted with a galling wave of his hand, as if calming down a child. He must have known that such a condescending action would have annoyed Charlie immensely, and was already dodging with a chuckle when his second eldest brother tried to cuff him.

"He meant," Bill spoke up after Charlie exacted his petty revenge, "the visit with Prewett. He was with you for barely a moment."

Ron only shrugged, and saw no need to explain the brevity of the meeting. No amount of pressing from his family would draw out any more words, and by the time half of them had squeezed into the lift, Ron and Harry trailed behind Hermione and Ginny at the back of the troop. They talked of things Hermione did not care for, such as Ron's concern for the Quidditch scene and Harry's opinion on the Cannon's new trade.

Two trips of the lift had been taken to transport the majority of the family to the entrance. The youngest of the group remained the last to leave the floor, and so it was with some surprise that they found Percy still standing in the cramped space when the doors slid open.

"Mum says I'm to ensure your return," he explained with a roll of his eyes. He barely paid attention, however, when Hermione, Lawrence, and Ginny shuffled in, and had nearly allowed the doors to slide shut when he noticed that his little brother and his little brother's friend were hesitating. "Get on," he ordered impatiently.

"Er …" Ron pursed his lips indecisively, and sent a sideways glance at Harry. Potter gave an expression of pure indifference, and he shrugged by way of encouragement. "Tell her we'll meet her at the Burrow."

"What?" Ginny squawked.

"We've got to take care of something for a moment," Harry helpfully added.

"Take care of what?" Percy demanded.

"Erm … I left something back there."

"Just run back and get it then," Ginny reasoned.

"He left a lot of things," Harry explained quickly. "And … and I've got to ask that doctor something. Private problem, you'll understand if I don't wish to speak of it." The others regarded Harry with a slight repulsion.

"We'll wait then," Percy told them, eyebrows furrowed with an almost…suspicious air. Hermione spied the narrowing of his eyes, and wondered if he ready to tell Mrs. Weasley on them.

"No need," Ron assured them.

"Yes, it's hardly something that requires the whole troop," Harry added quickly.

"What are you two up to?" Hermione wanted to know, moving forward to set her foot against one of the doors, so that the conversation could continue without interruption.

"Nothing," they both denied in unison.

It was then that a few important wizards entered the lift, thanking Hermione for her consideration and then exchanging a few puzzled glances as she continued to hold the door. When it was clear the combination of Percy, Ginny, Hermione, and baby was not enough to force the two boys onto the lift, and no amount of threatening and coaxing could sway them from their mysterious mission, she finally stepped back.

Wounded. That was how Hermione felt as they started their descent. Left out. She supposed this was how Ron occasionally felt when she and Harry had managed to fall into dangerous adventures without him. According to logic, she should have felt this more often. She was the only girl in their little trio, and the only one with a frightening love for all things academic. And yet, even if Hermione often found herself alone in the unnecessary forays into the library or bereft of time-of-the-months sympathizers, she had never felt cast out as much as she did now. They had not even spared her a second glance. Both Ron and Harry looked quite anxious to have the lot of them gone.

Was it vain to consider herself worthy of special treatment? She wondered as Percy relayed the news. For, certainly, that was how she felt. A tiny voice inside her said that, it was all well and good for Harry and Ron to have matters too important to tell Ginny and Percy—Ron's family. But she was Hermione, and such status meant an implied privilege to know anything and everything that occurred in the trio.

Perhaps it was vain, she decided as an angered Mrs. Weasley sent her boys on a short lived man hunt. They were boys. Ron was hurting in a way that Hermione could not help. Surely some quality time with Harry was the least she could allow when it came to Ron's readjustment period.

By the time the Anglia sunk to a bumpy landing just before the garage at the Burrow, Hermione had managed to pull herself out of her wallowing self pity, just in time to comfort the furious Mrs. Weasley. Mr. Weasley, of course, had attempted to soothe the mother's livid fears during the flight, but could accomplish only so much while watching out for errant fowl.

The arrival at the Burrow only served to distract her, for Percy needed an excuse to owl to his employer, and every draft had been deemed as grandiloquent by his family. The twins had been practically pushed towards the fireplace, if only to place a "Closed due to Family Reunion" sign on the door. Mrs. Weasley would not allow her family to shirk off responsibilities, no matter what the occasion. Bill had also left to take care of any excess paper work at the bank, and Charlie …

Charlie began a series of attempts to kidnap the baby.

"Where is Lawrence?" Hermione asked the general population. She had just stepped out of the loo, and happened upon an empty bassinet in the living room.

"He's not with you?" Percy asked as he sent Errol off from the backyard door.

"Yes, Perce, of course. The baby is in my arms, and, oh so sensibly, I ask for his location," Hermione answered back absently as she wandered into the kitchen, expecting to find one red-haired mother coddling her son.

"I am so glad motherhood has improved your patience," Percy retorted, joining her. He did not help, however, and only reached around her to prepare a snack.

"Percy, honestly, a little help would be wonderful."

"He's most likely upstairs, with mum."

"No, I just spoke with your mother."

"Dad's in the garden."

Hermione quickly walked to the backdoor he had left open, and gave a brief smile to the man outside before returning to where Percy had settled at the table. "He's not with him."

Percy paused, and sent her an irked glance. "Why are you looking at me like that? Lawrence is your baby, after all. I can't help it if you haven't a good eye on him."

"Both Hermione's eyes are perfectly functional," a new arrival called out. Hermione, with a sharp gasp of relief, rushed to the living room, where Charlie stood, happily holding a slumbering Lawrence with one arm. Percy, with a contented shrug, remained where he was.

"What are on earth are you doing, abducting people's infants like that?" she demanded, hands on hips.

"Lawrence is helping me with the clock," Charlie replied without sparing her the smallest of glances. The nerve. Not even pretending to care that she had nearly suffered a fatal heart attack. It would have been the gentlemanly thing to do. "Aren't you Lawrence?" He asked the baby.

Lawrence Granger was not very forthcoming, and Charlie accepted the non-answer with a one-sided shrug. Hermione watched, sliding from annoyance to amusement, as he attempted to affix the lost spoon to its proper place. After a few minutes of silent, smirking observation, Charlie told her to stop being an absolute waste of space and help him. She moved to relieve him of his burden when the older brother shied away, and instead nodded at the clock. She held the spoon with one hand as Charlie screwed it into place. Once the not-so-incredible feat had been accomplished, they both stepped back, and watched as Ron's hand found its way to sit neatly at Grimmauld Place, with Harry's spoon as well.

"What are they doing, I wonder," Charlie murmured before bounding away, apparently ready to begin more infantile adventures. Although the second eldest Weasley did seem to care for their clandestine activities, he did not care very much for their wish for privacy. Within a few seconds, he had sent Percy and the newly returned Bill to fetch the boys.

"Obviously, they wanted it done secretly," Hermione attempted to explain.

"Ron has time for secrets later," Charlie dismissed her worries easily, eyes never leaving Lawrence's face. "If he thinks he can get away with a separate lunch, the boy is madder than I thought. Isn't he, Larry?"

"Law—" She did not have a chance to correct him, for Charlie had dashed away with a speed Hermione found unnecessary for a man holding an infant.

Hermione looked at the ten hands on the grandfather clock, and then moved to chase after the child—and Lawrence—when Mr. Weasley called from outside.

"Your son is a maniac," she informed him gravely as he handed her an envelope.

"Duly noted," Arthur replied calmly, not bothering to ask which one.

Hermione contemplated telling on Charlie and his fiendish baby-snatching ways, but decided it was her irritation with two supposedly best friends that was encouraging her prefect habits. With a small smile, she accepted the letter, and walked back into the cosy home. Percy offered the remains of his tarts under the severest condition that she would put the dish properly away. Hermione accepted the strict terms, shooed him away, and sat down to read Ron's message.

It was not wholly Ron's message, she soon learned.

_Hermione,_

_Very sorry we didn't politely tell you to shove off, but we couldn't tell the truth without Perce or Ginny getting an earful. Just know that we would have invited you, if not for Lawrence._

_Love,_

_Ron_

_P.S. Harry tells me that you might misinterpret my meaning, so I should clarify that I do not resent Larry's presence. I merely meant to say that the place we went to is not exactly appropriate for children._

_P.P.S. Harry has read the letter once more and insists that we have not gone to the Temple of Woman—the meaning of which is utterly lost on my virgin mind. _

_P.P.P.S. If we do not return, I'd feel much better if you both stayed at the Burrow. Harry insists that he had all the evil creatures exterminated, but keep in mind that this person of supposedly good judgment has just giggled in an embarrassingly fem way when I read aloud "P.P." of that P.P.P.S. part. Just so you know._

Mr. Weasley casually entered the house when it began to drizzle outside, and, as he passed her, dropped another folded parchment into her lap.

It read, in Harry's messy writing:

_Did not. Ron nearly fell, and that's what I had been laughing at in a purely male manner._

She did not know whether this was an improvement or not, but knew for certain that the addendum had been a waste of both paper and effort.

Hermione sighed. Disappointment pinched at her as she reread the first message, but soon stopped the peeving pains when she realised that tonight would be Ron's first dinner since his return, and there would be no chance in hell Mrs. Weasley would allow him to miss that. With a determined nod, she folded the parchment, slipped it into her pocket, and traipsed off in search of Charlie.

Just before lunch, she found him giving a mutely fascinated Lawrence a lesson in de-gnoming. Her baby sat in the pram as Charlie easily sent the little creature flying.

During lunch, she found that she was only allowed to interrupt the male-bonding experience to give proper nutrition for the little "bludger." Ron and Harry, by this time had been dragged, literally kicking and screaming back to the Burrow. As Hermione had expected, Ron was not exactly ecstatic with his brothers' high handed manner. Harry was annoyed as well, but it was resigned sort of annoyance, as if these sort of rude interruptions were likely to plague him for the rest of his life. To fetch the others had not been half so difficult, as a few owls sent the message to the errant children that they had a choice between attending lunch or painful death.

Lunch, of course, was unnaturally long, just as breakfast had been. The act of eating was always hindered by the family's questioning of Ron and Harry's past few hours, the pair's verbal acrobatics to avoid fully answering the questions, and then the general meaningless chatter that came naturally and wittily to the family. Again, Hermione found it difficult to focus. This time, however, she was not hindered by the sheer wonderfulness of Ron's return, but by the sheer curiosity of Ron's disappearance. To interrogate him was impossible in between bites, both verbal and nutritional, and so Hermione was left to stew in her questions. By the time that Ron and Harry managed to swallow their pudding, barely chewing it, and flitted out of the grasp of the others, it was nearly time to prepare the next meal. Just before Ron disappeared in the fireplace, Molly calmly told him to return in five minutes, as he was going to be hungry for dinner soon. Ron had rolled his eyes, dully agreed, and waved goodbye to Hermione before vanishing.

And while she helped Mrs. Weasley prepare supper, she would catch glimpses of Charlie and Larry sitting on the floor in passing. Because Hermione detested the vegetative effect of the television, the older man was content with showing Lawrence the moving pictures of his favourite dragons.

"Should I be insulted that he doesn't keep pictures of me in his wallet?" Mrs. Weasley asked idly as Hermione paused to observe the two.

"I'd be more worried that he doesn't keep photos of any girlfriends," Hermione responded, just loud enough for Charlie to hear her teasing tone. He only shook his head and cooed to the youngest Granger that it was a tragedy to have such a nosy person as a mother.

"Not that he'd know what that's like," Mrs. Weasley said. Hermione nearly giggled, and then realised she was in earnest. Dutifully stirring whatever Molly instructed her to do so, the young mother nodded as she continued. "I make it a point to never interfere with my children's personal life. If Charlie hasn't had a serious girlfriend since the second week of October, then it's none of my business at all … "

"Serious girlfriend?" Ginny scoffed as she skipped down the stairs. "I'd hardly call two dates and a joint trip to the infirmary a serious relationship."

"You told Ginny about it?" Charlie asked from the other room.

"I might have mentioned it," was the unworried reply.

"Ron's left again?" Ginny wondered as she sat at the table and watched the other women prepare. It was a chore, Hermione assumed, that the youngest Weasley often did, and perhaps she was overstepping her bounds by usurping her role as kitchen partner. But Ginny did not complain, and only sat, happily arranging the dinnerware just so as the others arrived.

"Oh, you remember you have a rather important brother, then?" Fred asked her airily, plopping beside her. George gave him a nudge with his elbow, and the twin corrected himself. "You remember that you have another rather important brother, besides the other two mind bogglingly significant ones?"

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked with amused curiosity, seeing that Ginny refused to acknowledge her elder siblings.

George, with the same chirpy nonchalance Ginny had displayed, began to arrange the forks and knives in the most haphazard designs. "Well, where has she been, Hermione?"

"Gone, just like the two of you," Charlie answered, strolling in with Lawrence still resting in the crook of one arm. Hermione fretted slightly, but Charlie had assured her that he had been taking the utmost care of him. While she did not doubt his word—surely the caretaker of dragons could handle an infant—Hermione still felt strange unloading such responsibility onto another, even if only for an afternoon. She could not recall the last time she had spent more than four hours without changing a few nappies.

"Yes, but we were tarrying for the sake of our shop, for the necessity of ensuring our livelihood," Fred pointed out. "And where were you?" he asked his little sister accusingly. "With Oliver Wood, eh? Acting out certain urges while your long lost brother was who knows where?"

"If by urges," Ginny retorted, "you mean explaining the situation, and advising him to stay away from the Burrow a while so that we can all spend some uninterrupted quality time together, then, yes, you are absolutely correct."

Fred failed to speedily find an appropriate response to that, so George took the liberty of answering for him with a stern, "You are very fortunate, for that is exactly what he meant by 'certain urges.' I'm glad we've cleared that up."

"Good save," Bill remarked as he strolled in.

"If by good you mean terrible," Percy added, following his eldest brother to the table.

"The Weasley family is just full of unexpected definitions, isn't it?" Hermione laughed, handing each brother a dish to set as he passed her.

In due time, the lazy had been scolded, and motivated to help with the table setting, and the helpful had been scolded, and motivated to sit down and rest a bit. Then, the two categories merged to become the Cheerfully Starving, as two extremely notable guests had yet to arrive.

Bill had the dubious honour of grandfather clock checker, and, by eight thirty, he shook his head. "This just isn't right. Ron has to be starving by now. I mean, usually, he's the one yelling at everybody to get to the table, so that he could get started."

"I've just had a terrible idea," George spoke thoughtfully as he stared at the waiting food. "Suppose Ron could not wait until supper here, and acted out his inner cannibalistic urges on Harry?"

"It's very creepy how you speak as if having 'inner cannibalistic urges' is quite normal," Hermione told him seriously.

"Why Harry?" Arthur idly wondered, as if a missing son and his human-eating tendencies were quite commonplace topics. "Bit on the thin side, isn't he?"

"Through no fault of mine," Molly pointed out sagely. "I try and try, and the food goes nowhere."

"I don't know … " Ginny appeared doubtful as she toyed with her napkin. "His head is getting rather large."

"Still, not very appealing, fatty head and all," Fred argued. "Ron has terrible taste in men."

"It is amazing," a new voice said with heavy disgust, "what your family says when they think you don't listen."

"And, really, for the last time," another boy said, "I'm not gay."

The others said nothing in apology as they shuffled down the bench to make room for Harry and Ron. Before he settled, Harry had reached out to pat Lawrence's hair as he passed the bassinet situated at the corner of Molly and Hermione. Ron briefly looked at the child, but said nothing.

"And if I was," Ron added when, finally, they were able to start the meal, "Harry isn't such a bad candidate."

Harry appeared genuinely pleased. "Why thank you, Ron. You're not such a bad catch yourself."

"Yes, who needs women?" Charlie agreed. "All soft and pliant and generally good smelling. Yuck."

"And where were you two?" Arthur asked them, fearing that the conversation would turn scarlet. "Bill reported that you two were leaving the hospital an hour and a half ago. There would be no need to return after lunch."

"Yes, erm," Ron said, after a large swallow of potatoes. "We went to Number Twelve."

"Why?" Molly persisted.

"Manly bonding," Harry answered, eyes never leaving his plate.

"You couldn't do that here," Ginny demanded, unimpressed.

"What's the point?" Ron shot back, "many of you had other matters to attend to."

"Maybe we would have stayed if you have," Ginny pointed out.

"Maybe you're too nosy for your own good."

"How old is Poppy?" Mrs. Weasley cheerily asked Hermione, whose fork halted in midair at the sudden question.

"Erm … twenty three, I believe," she answered, openly puzzled.

"She looks older," Harry murmured, but then looked meekly down at his hands when Mrs. Weasley sent him an arctic look.

"Why Percy," Molly said happily, "she's right around your age!"

"She thinks I'm a tosser, mum," Percy informed her frankly as he passed the bread rolls.

"Percy, I'm very certain she does not—"

"Oh it's true," Bill corroborated. "I was there. But I believe the exact phrase was—"

"Yes, yes," Percy interrupted heatedly, "we all know of that mad woman's love for ridiculous obscenities. Another thing she ought to curb to improve her parental skills."

"Oh Percy," Harry groaned with a smile. "You weren't stupid enough to attempt to give parenting tips? I mean, your parents don't like it. What makes you think other parents would?"

"Here now," Charlie spoke up generously, "never underestimate Percy's ability to overestimate his own wisdom. It's insulting."

"Thank you, I suppose," Percy mumbled.

"Well said, Charlie," Mr. Weasley agreed. "What Mrs. Porpington needs is an older man—"

"Dad please," his second oldest protested. "I'm eating. Can't a man eat in peace without fear of romantic ambushes?"

"And why is this so important?" Ron wanted to know. "Has this woman specifically asked for help in that department?"

"No," Hermione answered. "But—"

"But, it really would be best if she married a wizard," Harry mused aloud. "Somebody to make sure the girls get the right education."

A heavy silence descended upon the family dinner, and, after he finished a long draught of pumpkin juice, Harry belatedly noticed the pointed glances. He rolled his eyes. "I meant some other wizard, obviously. Really people… ew."

"Two years difference, and yet no mental advancement," Ron said appreciatively.

"So what was the matter with Prewett?" Ginny wanted to know. "I meant to ask you right after, but you weren't with us."

"I dunno," Ron shrugged. "Perhaps he had an accident as a child, and all his joints never fully recovered—"

"I believe she meant his strange behaviour after your brief meeting," Hermione clarified with a small smile. Despite her friendly delivery of the words, Ron's face became shuttered the moment she finished speaking. Her gaze lingered as the others pressed him for more information, utterly fascinated with his features. Perhaps the war and the secrets of the past two years had jaded her, but Hermione could not recollect appreciating the expressiveness of Ron Weasley. He tried in the past to conceal his emotions, as any other teenager would have, but he was not as skilled with it as Harry and herself were. When very upset, he was not one to stow away the discontent behind a pleased mask.

In a way, she understood the repetitive escapes he had committed the day—just a day?—before. It was the only way he could frown without hurting them.

"Does he have a bogey, Hermione?" a quietly amused George asked.

The friendly grilling of Ron Weasley came to a halt as Hermione blushed, focusing on her supper instead. "No," she answered, and then, she added a "Shut up."

"Now, Hermione—" Fred began in a condescending tone, and she braced herself for agonizing teasing.

"Are you sure?" Ron spoke up quickly, elbowing his brother. "Because, I do feel something tickling the very tip—" He crossed his eyes as he looked down at his nose, and wrinkled it adorably. "No need to be polite, Hermione. I can take it."

"I swear, Ron," she laughed gratefully. "There are no nasal excretions."

"The back of your neck, however," Fred told him, grabbing the hair atop his head to push it forward, so that all could view the freckled nape, "is utterly disgusting. Gnomes could burrow in that mess."

"Please," Ron scoffed, pushing his brother away. "You could replant mum's garden in the dirt under your nails."

"Come to think of it," Molly spoke up suddenly, setting her silverware upon the table with a surprised clunk. "I don't recall any of you boys washing your hands before eating!"

There was much groaning and shuffling after this Weasley Rule blasphemy had been pointed out, and even sheepish Arthur Weasley was forced to leave his seat to abide by the rules of etiquette. Hermione saw no point in the order, considering they were all nearing the end of the meal, but appreciated the respite nonetheless.

Hermione had been forbidden to help with the after supper chores, and Harry sent her away to spend some time with her "neglected" child, who, with an eerie sense of good timing, began crying loudly just before Hermione could dig into dessert.

By the time Lawrence had been changed, fed, burped, and then lulled into sleep in the privacy of Ginny's room, Hermione learned that the boys were in the attic. She had thought it might have been another family-only situation, but was surprised to find Ginny and Mrs. Weasley at the kitchen table, talking over cups of tea. The dimly lit scene was so familiar that Hermione could not help but laugh as she approached, announcing their arrival.

"Hello," Ginny whispered happily, moving the bassinet so that Hermione could lay Lawrence down with greater ease. "I suppose Dad told you where the boys are?"

"Yes. Are we separated by sexes again?" she asked. She attempted to tell Mrs. Weasley that there was no need to rise and fetch her a cup of tea, but the woman smilingly refused to listen.

"I'd prefer it this way, really," Ginny admitted quietly. "I mean, I have no doubt that Ron would listen to me without teasing me terribly, the twins I cannot abide by."

"Tease you about what?"

"Oliver," Mrs. Weasley answered, placing one cup before Hermione's clasped hands.

"And, even if Ron did not tease, he would do that whole Protective Brother role," Ginny sighed, "which I like, really. It's cute. But very exhausting to fend off."

"Ron likes Oliver."

"They all like Oliver," Mrs. Weasley assured Hermione. "If they did not like Oliver, he would not have been allowed to date her for so long."

"Very annoying in terms of double standards," Ginny said with a roll of her eyes, "but true, just the same."

"Is it serious?" Hermione suddenly asked curiously. While the relationship with this older man had surprised and then amused her, she had never truly considered it to be a long lasting idea. It was just…well, strange. Out of all the boys Ginny had expressed interest in, Hermione did not ever recall Oliver Wood being one of them.

"Oliver thinks so," Ginny mumbled miserably, staring at her half empty tea cup. "Which is sweet, but also… Well, let's face it. Absurd. We've only been dating a few weeks—"

"Months, actually," Mrs. Weasley corrected with a disapproving frown.

"Right, and he's already speaking of crups." Hermione was slightly confused by the alarm caused by such a relatively harmless creature, and Ginny launched into a strange and completely naïve speech, comparing pets to grown up responsibility. At the sight of Molly's rolling eyes, she guessed this was not the first time Ginny expressed her marriage phobia, and was slightly jealous that the girl, only a year younger, could speak so childishly.

"I believe your daughter has a commitment phobia," Hermione said to Mrs. Weasley.

"It appears to run in the family," the mother answered mournfully, giving Ginny a pitying look that Hermione had oft seen directed to her older, single brothers.

Ginny's response to the pessimistic diagnosis was a tired and trite rant on the benefits of youth and how such a condition allowed for the complete disregard for long lasting relationships. While Hermione could not help but roll her eyes at such a hackneyed excuse, she could not help but also feel a twinge of envy for Ginny's ability to preach such nonsense. She was, after all, only a year older, and yet sometimes felt as if she were decades older than her peers.

Of course, Hermione thought wryly as she trudged up the stairs to the attic, having a baby did have a maturing affect. The idea was emphasized when she quietly intruded on the boys, and many a freckled face turned to her with wide eyed panic so often seen on naughty children.

"I just came to say good night."

It was a lie. She had come to see if she could catch a few more minutes alone with Ron. But this seemed to be one of those brothers-only scenarios, for Hermione could not even see Harry huddled around the cluttered chess board. Charlie and George were absent as well, and she guessed that not everybody was very eager to spend the evening as a spectator in a cramped, musty attic.

They returned the sentiments in distracted mumbles, and the only one to spare her a glance longer than a second was, of course, Ron. He sat opposite Percy across the checkered battlefield, and seemed eager for any distraction.

"Good night, Hermione."

"Night, Ron."

"Harry went back to Twelve, in case you were wondering," he added just as she turned away.

She smiled. "Thank you, I had been."

"Yes, we had—"

"Stop stalling it, Ron, and face facts. You've been checkmated," Fred yawned. "My turn."

Hermione had left the four with the sleepy assumption of seeing her two best friends the following morning. Come sunrise, however, she found herself with another note of apology, this time in Harry's hand, stating that, although they were in outrageously stupendous circumstances, some absurd people still thought that he should go to work. Ron, in need of a talk with Dumbledore, decided to accompany him and, since an institute with hundreds of brats was no peaceful place for a child, they opted not to wake her.

"But we'll miss you greatly!" Harry had decided to add at the bottom of the paper, apparently fearing that Hermione was ready to jump off a bridge because of the slight.

And, of course, she was not ready to feel depressed simply because the boys were off being boys. There were far too many things to deal with to obsess over some tiny neglect. There were no established rules of etiquette when it came to this unusual situation, so she had no right to expect anything from Ron except whatever his confused mind could give her.

Besides, the unexpected solitude had given her the much needed opportunity compose a…well, she didn't want to call it a "list," for the issues she sorted concerned people's happiness, and such a serious matter should never be treated so carelessly. But, if one was to be succinct, yes, the young witch had composed a listing of all extremely unhappy to mildly dissatisfied people in her life. There was a corresponding composition which detailed how to change that to Extremely Happy to Mostly Satisfied, but she had yet to get it to paper, mostly out of fear of being caught.

Of course, first person on the list was Ron…well, more like Ron-and-Hermione. She had no inkling about his current level of happiness due to his absence, but they still needed to talk. As soon as he was ready. Yes. No militant manipulator here. She was determined to speak to him as soon as he was willing. Hermione had reasoned this with immense placidity when they failed to return for supper.

And that placidity disappeared when, the following day, she was once more left alone, with two notes of apology from her bumbling idiots some would call friends. Of course, she was not one to sit idly by while being totally and rudely ignored, and so with a perfectly indifferent air, she bundled up Lawrence and whisked away to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Just to show that she was absolutely tranquil with their high handed behaviour, she passed Harry's home once or twice or five times before deciding to knock on the door. When nobody answered, Hermione Granger shrugged with utter equanimity before Apparating inside with Lawrence.

"The nerve! The gall!" she later fumed to Ginny over a disturbingly large salad. Supper was a scattered affair, with Arthur at work, and the others eating alone or in pairs. Molly was apparently forgetting the forgetfulness of her youngest son by coddling Hermione's only son. Exhausted with the days frustration, Hermione had readily shared her baby. Ginny soon learned she was not willing to share the vegetable burden. Hermione had missed supper due to Lawrence's splendid intolerance for punctuality, and now the young girl kept her company as they ate in peace. "Telling me they would be there and then not being there! It's a sin, I tell you what. It should be against the law."

"Vacancy?"

"Lying," she huffed in return, and sent a piercing look to the youngest Weasley. "You wouldn't happen to know where they are, do you?"

"You think I'd risk death by keeping such a secret from you?" Ginny snorted. "So where have you been all this time, if not stalking my brother and ex boyfriend?"

"I went to Poppy's. I needed somebody else to hate men with."

"I can hate men," Ginny protested, slightly hurt.

"Not when you're dating one who wants to buy you cute animals. Then you're right up there with the hated."

"Lovely."

"We think so, you jezebel you."

They had, of course, done more than "hate men." During her hours long visit with the Muggle, Hermione saw that Poppy was happy. Truly happy. The young mother could not recall when she had last seen the exhausted Mrs. Porpington so jubilant she actually skipped over the scattered toys around the flat, instead of cursing the toy companies to high heaven. Although Harry had expressed some concern as to whether the girls' decision had been purely the _girls'_ decision, Hermione had not spied any reluctance on the triplets' part. In fact, other than adorably pink sun burns, the girls seemed more content than ever before. Hermione herself was pondering a trip to a deserted island, considering what positive effects she had witnessed.

Ginny now persuaded Hermione to share her thoughts, just a bit.

She agreed to, but would not be swayed from her complaints. "But do you know who should also share their secret business?"

"Ron and Harry," Ginny sighed tiredly.

Hermione bit her lip. "I wasn't going to say that," she denied half heartedly, hoping she hadn't been too repetitive to her friend.

"Really?"

"Yes, really," Hermione said with an embarrassed laugh. "I was going to say … everybody. Everybody in the entire world should share. It promotes peace."

"And naughty diseases," a newcomer laughed, earning himself twin expressions of disgust as he entered through the front door. Ron was shaking his head as he followed Harry, but Hermione knew that he was attempting to hide a small smile from his lips.

_Ugh. Boys._

"I'm sorry," she began in a pleasant tone as the boys helped themselves to leftovers, "but have we met? I vaguely remembered the fellow with the ridiculous glasses, but …"

"We left you notes," Ron began apologetically.

"Ridiculous?" Harry demanded, settling beside him.

"Notes? Notes are supposed to keep me from feeling totally and rightfully neglected?" Hermione was aware on a very uncaring level that she was nagging like a housewife. And, had this long awaited reunion occurred a few days prior, she might have concealed her irritation with more effort.

"Well," Ron began again, dropping the sorrowful tone much earlier than Hermione had anticipated, "what do you expect? We leave when you're sleeping and, considering how demanding the feeding schedule is, we know it would be cruel to deprive you of what rest you can get. So what would you have me do, Hermione?" He paused in his eating long enough to send her an irritatingly sensible look. "Drag you out of bed and away from Lawrence so you can share in our extremely dull tasks?"

For a moment, Hermione could not gather her thoughts quickly enough for a suitable reply, leaving Harry enough time to let out a smug chuckle.

"Besides," Harry added after Ginny had fixed a scowl onto him, "Tardiness is not an option when under the surveillance of Remus Lupin."

"How do you find time for such dull tasks if Harry works?" Hermione asked Ron, whose mouth was too full to answer politely.

"We go during my lunch."

Ginny frowned, puzzled. "But that still isn't enough to—"

"I manage to take a very long lunch," Harry interrupted with a wicked grin.

Hermione mightily suppressed the urge to scold him, a feat that caught Ron's amused eye, and only asked, "So what occurred during today's immorally extended break?"

"Right," Ron began promptly in a very decisive voice, "There has been a bit of a mystery plaguing me. Harry and I discussed it at length earlier."

Hermione tensed slightly, waiting for the many pointed queries her ex could hurtfully offer. Such was her ego.

"If Harry wasn't the massively overrated super hero he is considered to be …"

In response, Harry sleepily wiped at his eyes and sent a wanker gesture Ron's way.

"And I didn't have … Harry, tell me again how many brothers do you think I have?"

"Approximately … forty two … no, seventy eight … sixty three."

"So if Harry wasn't such a celebrity and I didn't have my one-eighty-three brothers before me, would we be as popular as we were at Hogwarts?"

Ginny tilted her head in contemplation, and Hermione bit her lip as the four pondered the question.

"Let's think logically of this," Ginny yawned. "Ron, you aren't terribly handsome nor magically impressive. But you did have Quidditch."

"And Harry isn't that much to look at either," Hermione added.

The boys pouted, deciding to answer for themselves.

"I think that we would be twice as popular," Harry declared staunchly.

"Especially when one considers our stunning good looks," Ron added defiantly.

Hermione shrugged with a small laugh. "You did ask."

Harry dismissed the subject with a wave of his hands. "It doesn't matter. Less than trivial. When one looks to the past, one must consider the things that truly make a difference." He leaned forward slightly, eyes a bit more awake. "Who was the handsomest Gryffindor boy?"

"Now girls," Ron spoke up quickly, "let's not be hasty. One must not consider great acts of ridiculous heroism, but sense of humour, amount of freckles, and greatness of heights." The last of the criteria had been offered with a rather lofty grin directed to Harry, who only sniffed with studied indifference. "Also," Ron added, addressing Ginny, "your vote doesn't count, because you dated this tosser."

"Well then yours can't either," Harry argued reasonably, looking at Hermione, "because you made the infinitely stupid decision to go on with him."

"Dean Thomas," the girls agreed in unison after a second's contemplation.

The boys scoffed, pled for a serious answer, and then absolutely refused the one that was offered again.

"Dean Thomas," Harry repeated scornfully. "He wasn't …well, all right, he was a nice bloke, but I never saw him in any tournaments now, did I?"

"Harry, don't speak of the dead like that," Hermione scolded.

Ron was only slightly better. His face had contorted in a mixture of surprise and offense. He sullenly muttered, "Oh sure. If the definition of 'handsome' includes tall and dark, which it _never_ does."

Ginny giggled. "Ron—"

"Not one freckle! Did you not _hear_ the requirements?"

There ensued some conversation very typical for the four. Ginny and Harry flirted in a manner that left Hermione mildly amused and Ron slightly suspicious. Hermione and Ron argued in a nostalgic way that made both Harry and Ginny quite happy. And both Ron and Harry verbally maneuvered so well that Hermione herself nearly forgot the reason for her agitation with them. The remembrance returned when the two girls pressed them for the details of their oh so important days, and neither could give very satisfactory accounts. Harry extended an invitation for the day after tomorrow, only to be met with the harsh accusation that the only reason he invited her then was that he knew she would be unable to accept, as Lawrence had a check up.

"That is absolutely untrue," he stated flatly.

"Harry is incapable of being so clever," Ron supported him helpfully.

"Well then why am I not invited for tomorrow?"

"Because I'm staying here tomorrow," Ron supplied with a comforting smile.

"Here here, or here somewhere else," Hermione asked suspiciously.

"Did 'here' develop a new meaning while I was away?" Ron asked the room at large.

"Words always have new and offensive definitions when it comes to women," Harry advised him sagely. "Just the other day, I said pineapple, and your sister threw a fit."

"I asked you how my hair looked," Ginny retorted flatly. "If you were not describing my hair, then why on earth would you say 'pineapple' for no apparent reason?"

Harry interlocked his fingers on the table before him, and sent his former girlfriend a superior look. "Perhaps because I am sophisticated enough to enjoy the lovely phonetics of the English language. Have you tried it, Ginny? Say it with me. Piiiiine…aaaaple."

"Iiiiimbeciiiiile," Ginny replied with the appearance of dutiful obedience.

Ron sent an irritated glance to his best mate. "Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"You're weird."

Harry merely nodded, declared his intention to leave, and offered a careless invitation to anybody who cared for a fantastic sloshing to accompany him to Number Twelve. Hermione noted that both speed and hearing of the twins were utterly remarkable. Fred and George, impatient with Harry's foolish need to say good bye like any decent human being, popped out of sight, threatening to finish all the alcohol if he did not follow in time.

Hermione accepted Harry's farewell, which was a swift kiss to her forehead, and was only slightly surprised to see Ginny as a recipient of a similar good bye. While it was the expected thing from the lately jubilant Harry, the relationship of Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter had been nowhere as amiable as the friendship of the two was now. Because there was presently enough conversation to ease Ginny's wounds and repent Harry's rotten behaviour, Hermione remained unsurprised to see them remain close platonically.

Ginny had rolled her eyes and shoved Harry away, failing to notice the troubled expression on Ron's face as he observed them both. Before Ron could voice his reason for discomfort, Harry clasped Ron's shoulder before Apparating out of sight.

"He says drinks," Ron said lightly, "but he really means he's going to a pub to pick up a girl. He'll only go to Grimmauld to change clothes."

"Thank you for the unnecessary information," Ginny drawled, rising.

Hermione could see, even if his sister could not, what Ron had intended. Upon spying her indifference, she saw him relax slightly, and then accidentally meet her eyes. She had not intended to show any disapproval on her face, but Ron must have misread something any way, for he blushed slightly and waited for Ginny to ascend the stair well before speaking once more.

"I was just … it wouldn't be fair to Ginny if Harry made her think…erm… " He shrugged.

"Yes," Hermione interrupted, with a smile. "I see that. No, no, it's fine. I think it's sweet actually."

He smiled back, the curve of his lips reminding Hermione of the days when such a carefree smirk made her weak in the knees. It would be a lie to say that Ronald Weasley was one of those men who strolled into a room and demanded everyone's attention with one effortlessly sensual look. More often than not, Ron would be willing enough to pass such attention to somebody else, with a thoughtless humility Hermione found more than attractive. He did not possess Draco's aristocratic self possession, and nor did he resemble Harry's lovable quirkiness.

Yet there these moments, these quiet, intimate, and lately rare moments during which Hermione struggled not to reach for him. Sometimes … Ron raised an eyebrow, in response to her silent study. Hermione did not care. Sometimes … when Ron sort of lounged like that, all slouching and nearly dripping off his chair … his lean muscles barely defined by the firelight…his too-long hair falling in his face like a mischievous boy who had successfully escaped his mother's barbering shears … and his jaw shadowed by a day's worth of prickly stubble…

Sometimes Ronald Weasley looked good enough to—

"Erm … did you just say _puck_? Or fu—"

Hermione blinked, and let out a sigh, not even knowing how long she had been restraining it. "Yes," she interrupted immediately, wondering and then hating how her voice became so breathy. "Yes … ah … Shakespeare. Puck. A Midsummer Night's Dream."

Ron's other eyebrow arose as well. "And that is pertinent how … ?"

She continued at a calmer pace. "I was just thinking that, as well as they meant, the higher powers should have let true love run its course."

It was a lie, of course, but hell, it was a damn good one. In fact, she was writing a short essay on it in her leisure time.

"Well." Ron threw her a tiny, amused half smile. "That is relevant."

Hermione sat back, slightly relieved. True love was not something she wanted to discuss, but her wanton wish was not a better topic.

"Much more relevant than the other thing that I _thought_ you said," Ron continued idly, playing with his empty mug. She watched with a growing blush as he, quite improbably, attempted to balance the edge on one finger. Easily, he caught it with one hand as the ceramic cup toppled over the table edge. "Not quite as enjoyable, mind you, but still. Much safer conversation."

She couldn't help it. She giggled. She giggled as if she was sixteen again, and those quick, secret flashes of a grin still made her legs momentarily immobile.

In fact, she tested the authenticity of this adolescent emotion.

Ron's face transformed from roguish hinting to warm concern. "Did your legs fall asleep?" he asked sympathetically, rising from his side of the table to stand by her. "How long have you been sitting here any way?"

"Long enough," Hermione laughed quietly at herself, accepting Ron's helping hand though there was nothing physically wrong with her legs. He released it as soon as possible, when she did not threaten to fall on numb legs. They walked quietly to Ginny's room, where Hermione had been spending her nights. The door was slightly ajar, and Hermione could see the corner of the Weasley cradle.

"Will you spend the day with me tomorrow?" she asked him abruptly. He had already begun to walk away, and his only good night had been a quick, hesitant brush of his hand against her shoulder. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough, this Ron who was afraid to talk to her, petrified of touching her. He looked at her in surprise, most of his face hidden by the shadows of the evening. But she could see the blue of his eyes clearly enough, and Hermione saw the reluctance in them.

"Goodness," she said with a small laugh that sounded brittle even to her own ears, "that sounded very selfish, didn't it? I had assumed that by staying here, you would have nothing to do, and of course you want a rest; the pediatrician's office isn't very conducive for repose, I know—"

"No, no," he responded quickly, and for a heart breaking second, Hermione thought he was refusing. "No," Ron said for the third time. Then she heard the smile in his words. "It's fine. We don't have to Apparate do we? I still haven't gotten around to getting my license—"

"Oh, don't bother. If it's any trouble to you, then I'll just let you sleep in and we'll talk when Lawrence and I return—"

"Hermione," he chuckled. "Have I ever shown you my list of Things To Do Before I Die?"

Hermione made an inquiring hum, much too surprised by his interruption to deliver a coherent reply.

"Well, no, you haven't, because I composed it while I was dead," he continued thoughtfully. "But, still, you should know that number fifty two is to visit and speak with a real pediatrician. Tomorrow I shall be able to cross number fifty two off the list, and your lovely company is simply an added bonus."

"Well." Somewhere out there, Hermione's Witty Reply was awaiting for the right moment to reveal itself, but at the moment, Hermione was too pleased to say anything remotely resembling cleverness. She settled for another, "Well."

"That's right. Well, aqueduct, and cistern. Good night, and I'll see you tomorrow morning."

Then again, Hermione reflected as she dressed for bed, unable to wipe the smile from her face, Ron Weasley could be as wickedly desirable and adorably strange as any boy of her acquaintance.

xoxox

"Do you think I could have one of these medical posters?" Ron asked idly. He paid no heed to the questioning glances sent his way by the other couple. Hermione bit back a smile, keeping her gaze on Lawrence. He had that "I am about to release a glass breaking wail if the temperature raises another degree or two" expression on his tiny face.

They sat in the relatively small waiting room of Doctor Patel's office, occupying three seats and completely ignoring the scrutinizing looks of the other couple present. Hermione knew that Ron had noticed their unnerving glances, for he turned to her with a questioning look after they had seated themselves, but she did not bother to explain. If the judgmental Quincy's wanted to attempt to drill holes in her head with the power of their beady little eyes, that was their business. She wanted nothing to do with them.

"I mean, only as a souvenir. To remember fifty two," he explained innocently.

He spoke casually enough. In fact, everything about Ron spoke of perfect tranquility. He made off hand, but not constant chatter during the bus ride, and sometimes handled the baby carrier when Hermione appeared to be burdened. But still, something nagged at Hermione. A voice told her that something about the sudden ease between them was not quite forced, but not quite complete either. Hopefully, a private lunch would cure the problem.

She opened her mouth to speak, when Lawrence apparently felt the minute shift in the temperature. Ron did nothing to hide the pain in his ears as Hermione lifted him up and calmly attempted to shush her baby.

"He must have known it was his turn."

Hermione, instead of looking towards Dr. Patel's welcoming expression, quickly turned to Ron. She was not dissatisfied. Thankfully, he was not as tactless as Harry, who, upon first meeting Lawrence's physician, had confusedly asked, "Another nurse?" Doctor Patel was Hermione's pediatrician, and, although her dark hair was greyer and her glasses a bit thicker, Hermione had every faith in her former physician. Before she learned she was pregnant, she had not seen her since the end of her childhood. Hermione did not remember Dr. Patel ever being so short. Of course, in comparison to Ron, everybody was a midget.

"I'll stay here," Ron volunteered after a brief handshake with Dr. Patel, "and … uh … guard the baby carrier."

"We wouldn't steal it," Mr. Quincy protested indignantly.

Ron did not even turn to face them. He kept his eyes trained on Hermione, and cocked his head slightly. "I'm sorry … I thought I heard a pig snort … is there a veterinarian practice nearby, Doctor Patel, or am I—"

"Oh come on," Hermione choked out, pulling him after her with one hand as they followed the woman out of the room. "That was very bad of you," she told him in a whisper as they ambled down the hall.

"You don't like them," he shrugged, swinging the baby carrier with one hand as if it were a picnic basket.

"That's not a valid reason for you to be rude to them," she pointed out sternly. Ron, who had been observing the pictures of past patients lining the walls, turned to her with a grin.

"Well, they don't like you. That's a very valid reason to be rude, now, isn't it?"

"You're horrible."

"And you're smiling. I can't be too bad, can I?"

"In my professional opinion," Doctor Patel interrupted as they entered one bright, sterile room, "I think so."

"We've just met," Ron protested, sitting in a chair situated in the corner while Hermione and Lawrence sat on the examination bed.

"And that is the problem," the doctor replied with a sniff. "Where have you been for the past year?"

"Oh!" Ron's puzzled expression eased with comprehension. "I'm not—that is, Lawrence isn't—"

"Ron isn't the … erm, I mean that—"

Doctor Patel observed Hermione's growing blush and Ron's stuttering, and interrupted with a sheepish expression. "I'm sorry … I assumed, because he looks so much like you—"

"Not the eyes," Ron pointed out tonelessly, and took to studying the safari animal print border.

Hermione watched him, feeling both slightly hurt and silly for being slightly hurt. It was true; although Lawrence's silver gaze sometimes bordered on blue, nobody could mistake them to have been inherited from Ron Weasley. Their fiery hair colour, however, usually resulted in that mistake. Earlier, when they had ridden the Muggle bus to the practice, a woman had commented to her companion on the niceness of the Ron's family. Ron had only responded with a tight smile.

Throughout the check up Ron had shown only minimal interest, only speaking when directly spoken to. The only time he appeared to be mentally present was when the doctor finished and teased Hermione.

"He's a great deal more behaved than you ever were," Doctor Patel stated while she scribbled on her clipboard.

"I'm sorry?" he asked curiously as Hermione pulled Lawrence's shirt over his head. Lawrence was not helping, and flailing his chubby arms as mum struggled in exasperation. "You knew Hermione before?"

"Yes," Hermione answered for her former pediatrician, "and somehow, I survived to adulthood."

"And this is the thanks I get for saving her hair," Doctor Patel chuckled.

Hermione rolled her eyes, and waited for Lawrence to kick himself tired. She was watching the infant as he happily rotated his legs in the air. With her hands on her hips, Hermione knew that it would only be a matter of minutes before he dropped his limbs to the bed out of boredom.

"She had head lice," Doctor Patel clarified under Ron's excited encouragement, "when she was five. Her parents considered shaving the entire thing off, but I persuaded them to double their efforts with the nit kit."

"It would have grown back," Hermione huffed, as she pulled on Lawrence's socks.

"But any chopping would have been unholy," Ron protested, offering the baby carrier for Hermione to strap Lawrence in. He smiled at Doctor Patel. "If Hermione hasn't thanked you for the follicle rescue, let me do so now."

"How lovely to know that my former doctor and my … " she trailed off uncertainly, and Ron regarded her with a quizzical glance. "And you are enjoying my childhood trauma."

"The case of head lice wasn't nearly as traumatic as the time you put a jelly bean in your—"

"Oh, we're late for lunch!" Hermione cut her off brightly, grabbing Ron's hand and dragging him out. "Send the bill to the new address, please."

"But I want to hear the story," Ron whined, waving good bye to the Quincy's as they left.

"I bet you do," she muttered. She endured his good natured teasing for two blocks until they both realised that they had no idea where they were going. They paused beneath the swollen clouds, nearly laughing at one another.

"And yet you were striding so purposefully," Ron noticed, confused. "I could have sworn you had a set destination in mind."

"I wish. It was more about showing aplomb when leaving than actually going somewhere," Hermione looked around the not so busy pavement, brow furrowed in concentration.

"You did say we were late for lunch," Ron offered helpfully. He looked down absently at his burden when Lawrence let out a meaningless mew.

"I was lying."

He tsked once. "To the woman who saved this lovely mane," he gasped, tugging one curl with his free hand. "Shame on you."

Because she was in an ill mood and somewhat hungry, only made a biting motion, causing Ron to withdraw his fingers swiftly. Then he gestured to a fast food restaurant across the street. "Let's eat there." Hermione looked ready to agree when he added warningly, "You'll pay?"

"Ron," she sighed, stopping short. "I didn't bring much money."

"We can go to Diagon Alley if you want me to pay. Unless there's somewhere we can exchange … " They both looked around hopefully, and Ron laughed. "It's not a very magical town, is it?"

"Depends on your idea of 'magical.' I thought it quite charming growing up." She did not give him a chance to respond, and instead walked to an empty dead end before pulling her wand from her coat.

Stanley was not happy to see them. "Does the term 'emergency transport' mean nothing to you?" he demanded as they stepped on and Ron paid the way.

"Nice to see you too mate," Ron retorted. Hermione sent the conductor an evil eye, for she had not quite forgiven Stan for providing the interview. Ron, however, decided to remain indifferent to her violent expression and Shunpike's terrified one. "Where to, Hermione?"

"Harry's, please," she said in an icy tone before sweeping past Stan as if he were nothing.

Ron gave Ernie the address and then joined Hermione in the far back. "He won't be there you know."

Hermione knew. Her small shrug indicated as much, and she watched the window as Ron's reflection revealed an adorably sheepish expression.

He probably thought she had planned it. _Well_, she thought blithely, she sort of did, but not with the intentions Ron assumed. It was cute how his ears turned slightly pink when he had something lascivious on his mind.

"That other couple seemed overjoyed with our company," he noted neutrally.

"Ugh," Hermione rejoined with less composure. "They're like the Muggle version of the Berkensmyths."

"Who?"

"Horrible family. It's amazing how an unmarried status will earn you disapproval in any society, magical or not." She spoke cheerfully enough, yet not enough indifference in the world could have stopped Ron from frowning slightly in annoyance.

"Do you see them often?"

"The Berkensmyths?" Ron shook his head. "Oh, you mean the Quincys. We've run into each other enough for them to learn that Lawrence is out of wedlock."

Ron had no opinion on the matter, except a sympathetic smile and a pat on her shoulder.

Shoulder. Shoulder and arm. That's where he touched her now, and while she supposed it was a good sign that he felt comfortable enough to treat her like a second sister, Hermione was never one to settle for "good enough."

They arrived a few blocks away from Number Twelve, and the walk was filled with pacifying a grumpy Lawrence and tearing Ron's gaze away from an annoyingly pretty post officer. When they entered the home, she had left Lawrence with Ron to dash upstairs and into Harry's bedroom.

By the time she descended the steps, Ron was nowhere to be found. She checked the kitchen, began a fire to allow it time to build.

Undisturbed, she ascended once more, casually calling his name in between her replies to the phone piece. Finally, after the order had been placed, she heard a faint answer from above.

"… and the rest is the usual rubbish," Ron was saying as she approached the attic. "His build—not much, you know—his deeds, and his … sapphire eyes? Is that a shade of green?"

Lawrence kicked in his baby carrier, which Ron had set beside him on the floor. The pair was surrounded by enormous sacks of fan mail, and in the corners were parcels sent by the admirers.

"No, Lawrence," Ron disagreed thoughtfully, perusing the parchment in his hands, "I think it's blue. One girl called my eyes that."

Hermione had been so amused by the strange scene of Ron and Lawrence's joint effort of answering Harry's fan mail that she nearly did not catch the last bit.

"You have fan mail?" she asked, stepping inside and around the dusty clutter, unable to hide the small note of displeasure in her tone.

"Only recently," Ron answered readily, too absorbed by the missive to notice Hermione's frown. "But Helga wrote that after I had died. I'm sure she's written something new that I'm alive again."

"You remember her name?"

"Of course. I had to write back of course. She was thoughtful enough to write an elegy for me."

It was a perfectly reasonable explanation and Hermione grudgingly allowed that Ron was allowed to write to those females who only wrote him after he had died—though, in her opinion, it did show a severe want of character, for Hermione had written him hundreds of little letters in her life time, and most of them he only kept but did not reply to. Granted, lots of those letters had been reminders of a date, or homework, or suggestions of presents for each other's family—

"Did you call someone?" he asked, gesturing to the mobile in her hand.

Hermione snapped out of her reverie and looked at the Muggle contraption in surprise. "Oh. Yes. I did. I ordered pizza."

"But neither of us can pay," he pointed out, folding the letter and stuffing it back in the envelope. She noticed that he let it fall into one small stack, as opposed to a larger one next to Lawrence.

Hermione gestured for them to follow her down stairs, and only waved a Euro note in her hand as a means of explanation.

"Where did you get that?"

"Harry's room. He's generally forgetful as to where he leaves his money. I found this being used as a book mark."

Ron was interested in the Muggle currency, with a curiosity that strongly reminded her of Mr. Weasley, and handed the baby to Hermione as he took the bill out of her hand. Hermione left the carrier at the top of the steps, and opted to hold her son in her arms as they ambled to the kitchen.

She was amused by the swift transaction. "Poor Lawrence," she murmured against his forehead, "No worries. You're definitely worth more than that."

"Eh?" Ron asked, holding the bill up to the light as stood before the living room windows. She giggled softly. "Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"I don't think we should use this money."

"Oh please. Harry's fairly rolling in it—"

"No, I mean, I think he'll miss this particular bill." Ron turned to her, flipping the note over and holding it before her eyes. "Look. He has some girl's number on it."

Hermione shifted Lawrence to her other shoulder, and rolled her eyes. Trust Harry to be so arrogant and thoughtless as to write some harlot's digits on a large note. "Perhaps it was already there."

"No, that's his hand writing," Ron murmured thoughtfully, scrutinizing the money once more. "See? The "o" in Olivia has a smiley face in it … and the two "o's" in Brooks was made into two—erm, not in front of Lawrence."

Hermione was not inclined to have mercy on Harry's private romances if he was inclined to be so crude about them. "Never mind. Harry won't miss one girl's number. The delivery boy won't find the house, so I'll stand outside—"

"I'll do it," Ron volunteered, never tearing his eyes from the counterfeit marks. "I'll see you in a bit," he said over his shoulder, striding to the door.

"Ron, it will be at least fifteen minutes—"

"I don't mind," he grinned, and closed the door.

Hermione was not annoyed with him. She did not want to be annoyed with somebody whom she had been missing desperately for two years. In fact, she was so far from annoyed that she skipped upstairs, grabbed one of Harry's coats, opened the window, and then tossed it onto an unsuspecting Weasley.

"It's cold," she told the top of the stunned young man's head.

Ron made no movement to remove the surprise attack, and gave a muffled, "Thank you for your concern," to the heavens.

By the time she had fed Lawrence, set up the table, and composed a list of things to do for Harry, Ron had entered with the belated lunch. She smiled at him, and he automatically smiled back before taking a seat across from Hermione and her baby.

_Across_, she thought to herself, as they quietly ate. _Always across_. Granted, it would be easier to meet each others' gazes directly if he sat across, but she had the sneaking suspicion that he distanced himself from her for a different convenience.

She couldn't stand it. She couldn't stand how everybody in the world seemed untroubled, when, clearly, there were too many troubling thoughts out there to be possessed by her alone. How was it that she was stabbed at every other second by one problem or another, and yet Ron, and Harry, and she was sure even Draco traipsed about as if everything were fine and dandy? She hadn't made up these problems. Problems usually involved more than one person and, if the world was filled with justice at all—or, at least, a little sympathy for Hermione Granger—all persons involved with the conflicts would equally share the burden of harmful emotions. Ergo, if she was attempting to arrange the happiness of those she loved with very little time and a great deal of anguish, then those whom she was helping might have the consideration to spend the same amount of agonizing planning.

Of course, she knew there was always a counterpoint. All good pros had good cons. Repetitive as it was, Hermione was well aware that the epicenter for all this misery was herself. She had no right to complain that two of the Wizarding world's most eligible bachelors had desired, waited, and fought for her heart. She was in danger of being committed if she stated that it was unfair that she was the one to decide their fates while the boys lived such a carefree life. Considering the emotional labyrinth she had led the three of them into, of course she had the lone responsibility of making such monumental decisions. To ask anybody involved in the matter for guidance would be childish, lazy, and just bloody unfair. Hermione nodded to herself. She was a grown woman now, much more advanced than her friends at the Burrow or her former school mates. Whether or not the equality of burden was an issue, the owner of the burden was very much intact. The swifter her decision came, the less pain for every one.

And yet … Hermione frowned at her second slice. Was there even a decision to be made?

The general public didn't think so. While Ron's return had sparked many a rumour concerning whence he came, how he left there, and what he had become, there seemed very little mystery as to whom he was returning to. His family. Harry, Hermione—his friends.

Hermione, according to the public, was quite firmly in the grasp of that deviously handsome Draco Malfoy, and who in the right mind would ever dream of leaving his side for the offer of one dubious hero? Even if one completely disregarded his good looks, there were more logical points to be made. He was the father of her child, and traditionally, one needed one of those while taking care of babies, if only to savour quiet moments of sanity. And it had been established that the affection was not quite one sided. Besides, the misinformed would say wisely amongst themselves, that hasty engagement between Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley had ended two years ago, far too long a time for such an ancient love to be rekindled.

Except…

Hermione glanced quickly at Ron, who had arranged the olives on his third slice of pizza into a smiley face and showed Lawrence. It reminded her of that one time he had done so for her at Hogwarts, to make her laugh…

Except … _No_.

No, they were quite wrong. Because, although, yes, it had been two years … Sometimes it felt as if it had been yesterday, cliché as that sounded. And to him, that probably felt like the literal truth. Occasionally, he would tease her as if he still loved her. Once in a while, they would laugh as if they were still seventeen year olds waiting to be married. And, at least twice a day, she would catch him staring at her with unmasked wanting that she was tempted—oh dear, very much tempted—to voice that desire.

_So, no, general public_, she thought firmly as she reached over and wiped Lawrence's chin. _You are very wrong. What we had had not ended …_

"Hermione?"

_What we had had simply been _interrupted

"Okay. I see." Hermione slowly looked up from her empty plate and belatedly realised that Ron had been speaking to her. He had seemingly given up, and had taken to chatting with Lawrence.

"You'll learn that your mum gets like this every once in a while. She's curbed the quiet, disjointed mumbling to herself over the years, but only because I insisted that she hide the incurable madness to stave off a straight jacket. It's best to let the brilliant mind run its course while she's in her little zone, and find something to amuse you. Your godfather Harry and I took to wagering how many times she would blink whilst producing her genius thoughts, and more often than not, I won. If you ask him about it later on, he'll just be the lying bastard he normally is and—"

"Ron," she spoke up with some difficulty, her voice hitching oddly. Hermione cleared her throat while Ron turned to her with a politely curious expression.

"Oh," he said jovially. "You're back then. And how are you now?"

Hermione opened her mouth to respond mechanically, with a diffident: "Fine, thank you, and how do you do?" when she paused, actually contemplating the simple question. When she looked to Ron again, the amiability had vanished from his face. The vulnerable confusion playing on her dainty features had effectively wiped away any joking.

"We have to go," she decided quickly, scooping Lawrence up and rapidly making her way to the fireplace. "You'll stay here, okay?"

He barely had enough time to rise to his feet. "Hermione, what's the hurry—"

"Just stay, please?" She made sure to see him give a bewildered nod before using the floo powder stored in an obscenely shaped vase on the mantle, and traveling to the Burrow. Affecting a bright smile, she implored Percy to watch her son, promising to return as soon as possible. When she Apparated back to Number Twelve, Hermione was both relieved and nervous to see Ron exactly where she had left him.

"Is everything all right?" he asked in alarm. "How is Lawrence?"

"Fine," she assured him timidly.

Ron sensed her nervousness, and asked slowly, "And how are you?"

"Rather badly, actually," she replied, smilingly apologetic, unable to stop the trembling of her lips. "Ron … we have to talk."

He was retreating. No, not physically, because perhaps, he subconsciously knew that such an action would sting her. But his face and his body language—the chilly puzzlement, the stiffening of his spine—spoke of cautious evasion and swiftly constructed walls.

"Of?" he said tonelessly.

In her hometown it had been drizzling slightly, the sky a cheerful and commonplace light grey, but here, the sun shone too harshly for a place called Grimmauld and for a girl named Hermione Granger, as if mocking their customary dread. Garish orange rays slithered into the dusty home, unwelcome when compared to the politely small flames of the fire.

"You know what of," she said, tone hushed and chastising. "Don't make this difficult, please. More difficult, I mean."

_Stop it tears. Stop it right now. You never help the situation._

"Well," he said briskly, taking her plate and sliding it across the table to set it on top of his. She hated that tone of his, the one that said that he was game to finish something, and was not extremely concerned as to the quality of his work. "What is to be said Hermione? It seems to be a hopeless case."

"Don't, all right?" she returned fiercely. Surprise tore at her, not for his determination to wrap up the conversation, but for her own, abrupt ferocity. Hermione knew she was nothing if not calm during the most climactic of events … concerning everything except love, apparently. "Don't talk like that. For you to be so—so bloody brief about it …" She trailed off, and for once, Hermione had the unfamiliar and unnerving feeling of grasping for words. "It hurts, okay, Ron? So please, can you not view this as a military battle to be won, and just speak truthfully?"

The careful, neutral demeanor—so utterly wrong on his honest face—had been immediately shattered by her brusque words. "Because," he replied, equally vehement, "the truth, and what you want to hear aren't the same things."

"And how do you know what I want to hear?" she demanded. "How do you know anything? You don't see me, Ron. You don't talk to me." To her horror, Hermione felt that it was growing harder to speak. She shook her head, hating how the "truth" she was speaking of now was the last thing in the world she wanted to be true. Funny how she defended Ron's intelligence, and yet loathed it when he landed upon an idea so wrongfully right. "I feel as if that, sometimes … sometimes, you deliberately look past me. That you deliberately speak as if I hadn't loved you with my entire being. That you deliberately—deliberately pretend that we were just friends. And it hurts, Ron. I know that, somewhere, some time ago, I've done my fair share of bad things to deserve hurt, Ron, but not from you. Never from you."

"Oh," he retorted acidly, hurling a sardonic gaze in her direction. "Really. I'm not allowed to hurt by being polite? But Draco Malfoy is allowed to trick you, betray you, and forget you? Forgive me. I had no idea what sort of priorities you have concerning sins." He waited tensely for her reaction, and surprisingly did not soften his animosity when she flinched. "Oh don't do that," Ron continued angrily. "Never say that Hermione Granger dislikes ill treatment? For misuse and abuse is the only way to woo your heart now."

_But of course_, she thought as she quelled another urge to shy away from what she had demanded; the truth. _Of course he would say that. Many people seem to be of that idea._

"What do you know of now?" she parried. "What do you know of the situation, besides what you've read in those idiotic newspapers and magazines? How the hell can you stand there and judge, when you purposefully distance yourself from me? Yes, yes," Hermione swiftly added, seeing he was about to contradict her. "Yes you do. First with that indifferent civility and now, with this contrived anger—"

"Contrived," he laughed unpleasantly. "Believe me, Hermione, this is not for show. I am angry with you—so much so that I feel it is better—safer that I pretend good manners a little bit than let you have the entire fury."

"Safer? Do you think you'll protect me by being a stranger? I'd rather be hurt by the true than by the false. If you cared for me at all …" Hermione trailed off, not even knowing what she requested. How could she request yet another thing, when Ron had so little to give?

Ron did not wait for her to finish, and spoke through clenched teeth. "I'm here aren't I? I do things for you. I take the time to make sure that neither you nor Lawrence is offended because what I've done or said. How can you sit there, and say …" He broke up abruptly, breathing heavily and attempting in vain to regain composure. Hermione hated to see him angry, but at least it was sincere. At least she was speaking to the real Ron, and not the overly thoughtful substitute he had been serving to her.

"Besides," he continued forcefully, "I don't know what you want. I don't know what you were expecting. When you say that … that it pains you, for me to behave this way, I can only assume that it's because you think that I feel obliged to do so. And such obligations make me false."

"Yes."

"No," he bit out. "No. There are no false obligations, because how I treat you is how I should treat you."

"Like a stranger?"

"Like a girl I cannot love!"

She inhaled sharply, the tears spilling from her eyes without warning. After his explosive words, she was unable think properly, to feel anything other than the sudden swiftness of her heart, the thudding pain spreading and silencing the world.

"Stop it." Perhaps, Ron had intended to menace over her as he had just moments before, but an intimidation was lost by the breaking in his voice. "Stop it. Don't—don't look at me like that, like I've just lied to you or something."

"But you have!"

"No I haven't! I'm allowed to say that, Hermione, because we stopped being us, and you know it. We ended the engagement—"

"It was a mistake," she protested. Ron stopped short, not knowing how to respond. Hermione took this as an encouraging sign; for it meant that she was not alone regretting that hasty termination. "Ron, you know that when I proposed the ending and you agreed, it was simply about saving face. It was stupid, and impetuous—"

"And a very good sign that we were not meant to marry," Ron finished stubbornly. "My god, we were children, Hermione, and we were willing to hurt each other so much for the petty reason of winning an argument. Of course we should have broken it off, and I'm glad we did. You should be too."

"How the hell can you ask me to be happy that we never had the chance to finish what we started?"

Ron looked as if he would like to pull out all his hair in frustration. "Were you listening? It did finish. You gave me back the jumper. You moved on. You have a son, and will have a husband, I'm sure, once he turns up again—"

"Stop it! Stop it, stop it! Stop saying that you don't love me, stop making me feel like a lovesick child for insisting that we must work it out, stop acting like what we had was well and truly finished. Perhaps you can speak as if it were all past, but I still lose my breath when you look at me in that certain way, and my heart still breaks when you try not to look at me in that certain way and—and … god damn it, Ron, you're making me cry!"

It was a welcome excuse to pause the conversation, though it embarrassed her to resort to such childish replies; her throat was beginning to ache. Ron had somehow made his way to her side of the table during the course of the argument, and was now standing beside her, shuffling his feet awkwardly. Clearing his throat as well, he offered her a rumpled handkerchief, but Hermione waved it aside. There were only a very few tears, after all, nothing her hands could not handle. She felt him sit beside her, and hesitated to look to him, afraid to see any finality in his sharp features.

"What do you want from me, Hermione?" he asked softly. "What do you want me to say? That I deserve the right, after all this time, to continue what we might have had?"

"Yes," she responded quickly, eagerly turning to him. "Besides, what does time have to do with anything? Everybody deserves the most at love, you know that."

He only stared at her, shaking his head. When he spoke, it was with a bittersweet tone. "I know that you believe that." Hermione did not know what to say to that, sensing that any elaboration on his meaning would lead them to a subject she did not wish to discuss. "I cannot be what you want me to be."

"Honest?" she challenged. It was not so difficult to swallow her tears when her mind latched greedily onto an argument that exuded the air of certain triumph. For, lord! How many times had she had this conversation with Ron? How many times, in the intimacy of castle shadows or dusky twilight, had she forced him to face the truth; that no matter what their friends, his family, or the world thought of him or her, they could be whatever they wished to be.

"Yourself?" she continued, growing louder. "The man who I love with all my heart, the man who made me smile even when he did not know I was looking? You cannot be that Ronald Weasley?"

"Another case of unrequited love," he shot back heatedly. "I've been that before, you know, and it's not pleasant!"

He was gesturing widely and dramatically, and Hermione instinctively reached out to grab one hand and hold it tightly. "Ron," she said with that know-it-all shake of her head that she knew he hated so much yet tolerated because…well, because of her, "Ron." He frowned at her, waiting for her to continue. "It was never unrequited."

Perhaps the admiration of two wonderful men had worsened her confidence, but Hermione had expected a somewhat positive reaction to her words. Then again, those wonderful men she had attracted tended to be a bit unpredictable.

"Ugh," he groaned, as if in pain. Roughly, he tore his hand away from her grasp and stood to begin pacing, balling his fists and then placing them over his eyes. She knew her tender declaration would have caused some sort of reaction, but a migraine was the last thing she expected.

"Ron," she pleaded, not a little impatiently. "Ron, will you just sit down and speak to me? Sincerely?"

"You want some sappy reunion scene!"

"I already had one thank you," she retorted through gritted teeth. "I want the rationality that usually follows afterward. Not this skirting around you seem to be fond of."

The tiny accusation struck a nerve, for Ron's face contorted from extreme annoyance to barely restrained fury immediately. He rounded on her. "I am not afraid."

"Then face me."

"What the fuck am I doing now?"

"You're trying to get this over with! You're cornered, so you'd rather finish it rather than work through it! This isn't something to tidy up, Ron, not something to be swept aside as quickly as possible."

"How can it be wrong to spare you pain?"

"Because I cannot avoid pain if I am hurting you! God, Ron, I know you're not stupid, stop acting like it!"

"Why?" he demanded. "What good will it do to tell you that I am _so close_ to hating you for letting me go? What's the use of telling you that, even though I died, you should not have forgotten your grief for me so easily? Fuck magic, Hermione, our love was more than that. What the bloody hell is the point of telling you that I don't want to love you any more, and that I sure as hell don't want to love your child?"

_There_, a voice said in her mind. _There. You asked for it. You wanted that honesty. There, go claim your reward._

It shocked her beyond tears. The words, so virulent on their own, became hollowly deadly when wrapped in Ron's normally warm voice. Hermione simply stood, not knowing what to do except stare at the man she used to know.

"Do you hate him?" she asked haltingly, wondering why she sounded so hoarse and choked. "Do you hate Lawrence?"

Her wooden disgust made Ron recoil, and he could think of no other response than to lash out once more.

"Do you think I want to despise him? Are you blind? Or are you so naïve as to think that another person whom I love yet cannot have is _just_ the thing that I need? Suppose I do love him, what then, Hermione? _What then?_ I love him, and he calls another man his father, and I can't bear it, Hermione." He had lost some of his fire, and was looking at her so brokenly. "I just can't bear it. The wife I never married, and the son I never fathered, both of you belonging to _him_? Is that what you want for me, Hermione? More pain?"

_Oh don't look at me like that Ron_, Hermione thought faintly as she numbly shook her head. His eyes, unnaturally bright, reminded her strongly of that blood soaked morning. They said good bye to her in that final, shuttered blue, and Hermione could not bear it. _Don't look at me like that_. _I'll die all over again._

How blessedly stupid she had been. She worried about Malfoy, but never thought of Lawrence to be the driving force between them. It was _Lawrence_, after all. He was nothing if not lovable. And yet … if Ron did not love him, then ... Well then, that was it. She could not love a man who could not love her son. It was that simple.

Of course … nobody ever said that Draco would love her son either; not in the way that Lawrence deserved to be loved.

"But," she had to know desperately, "_do_ you hate him?"

"No." It would have comforted her a great deal if he had responded instantly and with tangible disgust for the mere suggestion. But Ron had chewed on the inside of his bottom lip a while, and finally responded with a firm but solemn negative. Almost as if he had tried to detest Lawrence, and failed miserably.

"But I cannot love him," he was quick to add in frustration,"… that is, I do not want to love him as Draco should love him. I'll be an uncle, like Harry, if you wish…but less so. I can't—I can't…" He sighed heavily, and leaned against the stove, crossing his arms.

It was horrible, this unchanging stillness. Ron did not know how to go on, and, for that matter, Hermione had no idea what to say. She was pleased, of course, that Ron was not actively aiming to hate others. That seemed to be a mission for somebody with less heart, more hardness, and … well, somebody who was not Ron Weasley.

"Still … " Ron spoke up, belatedly sensing the awkwardness. He always seemed to be the last one to know when discomfort clogged the air. "I should have known."

"Known?" Hermione repeated fearfully. He would not be so eager to return to arguing, would he?

"That it would be difficult to dislike him. Came from you, after all. I spent five years convincing myself that you were the last girl on earth for me … and then you had to be all fiendishly irresistible and the like." Ron glared at her, shaking his head mournfully.

"Yes, well, I'm guilty of the same crime then," she laughed softly. "Except I only wasted four years."

His playful glare turned suspicious. "Sure it wasn't two? I could have sworn I felt some strange sparks from your direction our third year."

"That was me barely containing a hex."

"Ah. Chemistry and irritation—easy to confuse."

There was another short pause, but it was different. It was easy to relax in the silence, for it was quite clear that neither were very angry. With a tired, wry smile, Ron shook his head slightly.

"What?"

"This talking-about-one's-feelings thing. You're so keen on it, and, in truth, it drives me mad trying to speak with the right words." He paused, and drew a deep breath, trying again. "I know you want me to be honest … but I don't want to hurt you. There just seems to be no way of meeting both goals."

There used to be a time when she needn't force him. Once, long ago, she used to comprehend his sentiments exactly with just one, significant look from those ocean eyes, or with just a brief glimpse of his wry smile. Once.

"When will you love me again?" she burst finally.

The question had haunted her for days, ever since the night of his arrival. He had said so, yes, but perhaps only to politely respond to her unplanned declaration of that wonderful night of his return. Perhaps the length of time in between had cleared his view, aged his mind, and Ron Weasley no longer loved her as he had two years ago.

And yes, this moment had been wonderful, so to ruin it with the reintroduction of agonizing matters was a very bad idea. But Hermione could not settle for okay conversations or ripping confrontations, not when she was so uncertain. She had to know.

"Love you again." For a heart stopping moment, he merely looked at her silently, shaking his head as if fearing the very words soon to spill from his mouth. Oh god, why had she asked? Hermione bit her lip, hating how it trembled, for steadiness would allow her to calmly and laughing revoke the scalding question. She had thought that it would be worse, so much worse to sit in agonizing wonder, but Hermione now preferred that uncertain sea than to know with absolute certainty that it was impossible.

He inhaled slightly, mouth open in a disbelieving, almost bitter smile. She unconsciously braced herself, fatalistically wondering how he would phrase it. He was not one to decorate and style his words into some pretty presentation. Ron spoke from the heart and with the utmost sincerity—no matter how much the truth hurt the listener.

"Love you again," he repeated on an odd, small laugh. He shook his head, and Hermione felt her heart literally stop as he met her eyes. "It's not possible." Ron dropped his gaze, as if ashamed. "Because, in truth, Hermione … I've never known how to stop."

She nearly smiled—no, to be more accurate; she nearly lost her breath for her joy. But he continued with that horrifying little chuckle that did not suit Ron Weasley at all. Nothing so jaded and old should have ever belonged to him. "And yet you ask," he said slowly, more to himself than to her. "And yet you didn't know."

The tension dripped from his body, and Hermione slowly saw him as he had always been lately—a tired, broken hearted young man. When their gazes met briefly, she spied the fear unmasked in his blue gaze, despite the false smile his lips were trying vainly to assemble. "I must not be doing a good job with … us."

"If you apologise for anything, Ron Weasley," she said thickly, wondering were the deluge had come from, "I will hurt you."

He gave a small, apologetic smile. "It's a little late for that."

"Ron—"

"No, I don't mean that as an accusation. It's natural, for people who love one another to hurt each other … I suppose, that, given that standard, Malfoy must love you more than anybody in the universe."

"Don't, please … let's just not bring him up. I just wanted to talk about you and me, today."

"But, Hermione," he spoke gently, "he is between you and me. There's no discussing us without discussing him. Surely you see that."

Just as it had not been possible to be with Draco without remembering Ron every single day.

A small part of her had seen that, but, generally, Hermione wanted to remain blind to logic today.

Ron had refolded his handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket. "I … I better go."

_No!_

"No!" Hermione bolted to her feet and grabbed his wrists as if she were capable of physically keeping him. Ron had made no movement to depart, and only sheepishly allowed her to seat him across from her once more. She placed him farther away from her for his sake; he seemed more comfortable to discuss things if she did not crowd him.

"Everything's been said, Hermione," he was laughing half heartedly, "I don't see a reason to—"

"You haven't told me … how you really feel about the situation. About what's happened."

"You're a smart girl. You probably already know how I feel about everything. Very good on analysis, you."

He was trying to make her laugh again, and Hermione was both flattered and irked. "Ron, still," she prodded much like a stern teacher. "You had better tell me, to make sure my observations are correct."

"You're always correct, Hermione. Don't worry about it."

"Ron," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "I've forgotten how stubborn you can be. If there's—what?"

Had he been … no. No, not Ron. At least, not at her. Her perceptive eyes had told her factually that, yes, Ronald Weasley had been staring at her with a flare of dislike, but the rest of her had been frantically persuading otherwise.

Ron was doing the same. "Nothing."

_Oh, god damn that man_, she thought with a huff when he remained obstinately silent. This afternoon was beginning to be irritating beyond belief. She was unused to coaxing Ron to give an honest response, for, usually, he was the first to give his opinion to her without fear of judgment or insensitivity. And she knew that the childish persuasion was grating his nerves as much as they grated hers, for condescension was one thing that Ron never appreciated. The only way, she supposed with a wistful sigh, to force Ron to overcome his insane need to shield her emotions from the violence of his own was to…nudge, a little bit.

_All right_, she thought as she crossed her arms and leaned back, _so_ _"nudging" was, in short, manipulating his feelings_. But it was for his own good. At least, that's what her morals told her.

"You just glowered at me."

"No."

"Yes, Ron, I'm not blind."

He let out something not unlike a mocking scoff.

"Ron?" Hermione had completely shed the patient, coaxing tone and now spoke with sharpness. "If you've something to say, say it."

He affected a flippant shrug, gave a plastic smile, and began picking at a chip in one of Harry's plates.

"I don't know why I bother," she murmured disdainfully.

"Neither do I," Ron returned, unhurt by her change of moods.

"What was I thinking?" Hermione thought the contempt in her words a bit too much, and worried that Ron would see straight through her amateur thespian attempts. But Ron did not bother to look up, and only looked down at their plates with a grim face. "I mean, how deluded was I to believe that Ron Weasley would willingly spare a few minutes of his precious new days to tell me how he feels? To discuss the situation?"

His jaw flexed, but still Ron said nothing. Hermione noticed with quiet horror that it was not so difficult to feign resentment. Something in her did hate him, just a little. Just enough to let her say the next few words.

"I mean," she continued, "who was I to think things have changed? It's what broke us up, wasn't it? You're so adept at managing the now that you never consider how you affect the future. I can't remember how many times it was I who had to remind you what was happening the next week, or next day, or next hour—"

"What's the point?" he returned savagely. "You might _forget_ anything I've said by this time tomorrow."

"Don't be absurd," she snapped, "I'm not as negligent as some."

"How the hell can you sit there," he fumed, almost trembling with rage, "and ask me to continue my feelings from the past, to move on to the future, when you yourself tried your hardest to run away from that past?"

"And how the hell can you sit there and accuse me of such thing, knowing what Draco had done to me and my abhorrence for the deception?"

"Because you don't remember every sodding thing!"

"I'm well aware of that, thank you!"

"But you should!"

"The spell—"

"Bugger the spell, Hermione. You voluntarily forgot parts of the past, Hermione, _our_ past that he left untouched. There are scenes in your mind that remain blurred, despite the end of Malfoy's spell and despite my return. You don't _want_ to remember. You wish to forget me, more than what you've already forgotten."

She was shaking, and only vaguely alarmed to find that she could not stop. Whether from fear of his growing fury or alarm at his frightening grasp of the truth, Hermione could not tell. Her only firm stance was logic. "And how would you know—"

"I _know_, damn it," he interrupted brutally. "I wish I didn't, but I do. You can't even remember the words that divided us," Ron spat, hurt and fury warring in his eyes. "Don't be a hypocrite, Hermione. Don't remind me of things you can't face yourself."

"Well I'm facing it now," she shot back angrily, registering but ignoring the searing pain his obvious scorn had caused. "I might have tried to shy away from it before, but I'm trying now."

"So why should I be on your schedule? What's the rush? Do you want to resolve this loose end before Malfoy returns, so you can have your precious reunion without messy old flames getting in the way?"

"Forget about Malfoy for one bloody second and let me explain—"

"We all don't have the talent of forgetting people so easily."

"Why are you doing this? Why are you holding that against me, when it is something I loathe to even speak of? You say you haven't stopped loving me, and I believe that, Ron. I truly, utterly believe that because you and I were above lies. But I think that you have grown to hate me as well. I would just like to know why."

Ron opened his mouth, lips moving as if he were already speaking a silent confession. Hermione thought that, perhaps, he was hesitating yet again, and that she was to perform once more an excruciating manipulation to glean another small morsel of truth from him. If that was to be the case, she wasn't sure she would weep or roar from frustration.

"How could you forget me?" Ron suddenly exploded. "How could you forget me? I love you, I would have died for you!"

That was enough.

She was tired of it. Tired of his blood boiling inflexibility, tired of his absurd notions of protecting her, tired of his tenacious hold of the past.

Something snapped. Something that had made her reign in the words that she considered too blunt and too insensitive and too selfish to be spoken aloud … That restraint vanished instantly. "But you didn't die for me," Hermione shouted back. "Did you?"

Ron blinked. Clearly, her vicious retort was not what he had expected. "What the fuck does that mean?"

It was Hermione's turn to rise, and rapidly walk to his side. She stood over him, not because she wanted to intimidate him, but because she feared that any closer and she would be very much tempted to strangle his annoyingly chivalrous neck. To his credit, Ron did not even flinch when she flung an accusatory finger very close to his stony expression.

"I told you not to go. I begged you not to, I even tried to hold you back. But you went any way, you fucking bastard, you pushed me away to die! Of course I forgot you, because it hurt to remember you! Nobody asked you to bloody die for me! Nobody told you that would be the ultimate proof of your worth! It was never for _me_, Ron, because if I would have _ever_ asked you to prove your love, I would have asked you to survive with everything in your power. Never again say that you'd die for me … for that is the most hurtful thing that you could say or do."

By the time she ran out of breath, Hermione had dropped into a stern, but hoarse whisper, unable to do anything but tremble before him. Perhaps, if he had given the slightest indication of arguing her tirade, it would have doubled her ire. But the agitation on Ron's face had melted away with each trembling word, so that Hermione had nothing else to do but wait quietly for his response.

Ron nodded. She ached for him to say something, and all he did was nod. By the tired expression on his face, and the slump of his shoulders, Hermione was almost persuaded to say that … he expected that.

"It was stupid," he agreed softly. With an absent wave of his hand, he gestured for her to sit.

She paused but eventually complied. "I shouldn't have tried heroics. I don't know why but I was convinced—I was just so sure that you would die if we stayed together. I panicked—I'm not proud of what happened, Hermione, but I don't regret it. You might have died—"

"_You_ did," she protested. "And what? That's better?"

"Yes."

"No."

He raised an eyebrow, and beamed a small, ghost of a smile. "We'll have to agree to disagree, I'm afraid."

It was amazing. Now, after all that lung-exhausting yelling and the tearful murmuring, Hermione suddenly found herself incapable of producing a new subject.

"Wow," he suddenly chuckled, leaning back. "An awkward moment. I thought we left these things behind."

Hermione looked out the window, noting the slant of the orange light. It was a bit later than she expected, but still not late enough to feel this exhausted. She didn't know what to do next, and, to be truthful, she hadn't known what she'd been doing for the past hour. Hermione knew in the back of her mind that she was swinging from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other without much time or rationality in between. She was aware that she would firmly declare one thing, be it mentally or vocally, only to contradict that stance not a second later. She was, in short, confused.

_What was accomplished_, she wondered, as Ron quietly stood and placed the plates in the sink. _What had been solved today, except acknowledging the fact that he still loves me and I still love—_

"I still love you, too, you know," she suddenly told him, without the sentimentality one would expect to accompany the words. "I mean, in case you didn't know. I do."

If he ever doubted her, Ron did not show it. He smiled, inclined his head in acknowledgement, and sat beside her again.

The silence, although not as stilted and forced as before, still bothered Hermione.

"And I didn't mean to corner you here, as I said before. I didn't mean to be so…scheming. I just missed you."

"I've been here, Hermione—" He caught himself, and scratched his prickly chin sheepishly. "Well, all right, I haven't been around. But if you ever need to talk to me, just owl or something." Ron shrugged. Hermione felt a tickle on her hand, and was surprised when she saw his hand hovering above her fingers.

"I don't want to force you to do anything, Ron," she sighed. Hermione watched in disappointment as he withdrew his hand, settling it beside him. With a talent of being completely untalented when it came to pretense, Ron adorably failed to feign believable nonchalance as he pretended to fiddle with a loose thread in a seam of his trousers; his lower lip protruded slightly and his brow furrowed just enough to tell Hermione that Ron was inwardly berating himself for either not taking the chance or attempting in the first place. "I just want you to be you, without fearing of what I'll do or say."

Ron did not answer straight away. He was never one for flowery words. Hermione watched, literally holding her breath, as he looked away. And that might have hurt her, that might have led her to believe that this stormy conversation was all for naught—

Had not Ron calmly reached over, and caught her hand in a warm and firm grasp. Not facing her at all, Ron delivered a smile so lovely and so unabashed that Hermione half believed she would melt.

And, truly, she had had enough of this adolescent lurking.

"May I kiss you?"

That _did_ startle Ron enough to turn to her once more, face the epitome of surprise. Wordlessly, he shook his head.

She rolled her eyes. "Ron—"

"Well," he faltered, "perhaps. But under one condition."

Hermione tilted her head, waiting.

"Last," Ron spoke with some difficulty. He appeared distracted by her lips, and forced himself to look forward at a wall. "It'll have to be the last."

"Kiss?"

"Yes … until things are settled." For a long while, she said nothing, and he darted his gaze to the right as if to make sure she had not silently crept away. "Hermione … you know me, yeah?"

"Of course I do."

"Then would you say it is of my character to romance a girl who is with another man?" he asked her, wincing slightly as he struggled to phrase it properly. She saw he was crestfallen when she slipped her hand away from his, but could not help it.

"I'm not with him," she said unsteadily.

"You're not with me, either," Ron replied rationally. "Look, I'm sorry. It might feel right—oh, who the hell am I kidding? It'll be bloody fantastic to be with you again. But I can't. Not if—not when you're not wholly mine. And, please, Hermione, spare me the feminist anti-property speech."

Hermione promptly shut her mouth, swallowing a smile. He knew her too well.

"Some blokes are comfortable with stealing—" Ron began thoughtfully, and abruptly caught himself. "I mean, it would be better for the both of us, right? I mean, we wouldn't want to do anything that induces guilt later?"

She nodded. He opened his mouth to continue, but then frowned slightly at her.

"Wait, so is that a nod-yes we do want to do something to feel guilty about, or a nod-no, we don't want to do anything to feel guilty about?"

Hermione laughed softly, struck his shoulder. "The second one, I think."

He nodded understandingly and let out a heavy sigh. "Blimey. It's something straight out of those radio soaps mum loves so much, what's happened to us, I mean."

"I know," she agreed with a grin. "But let's not act, any more, all right?"

"I'm—yes, about that. Erm … I'm moving out. No, no, don't get angry, just listen, first, please. You're right, and you've been right, and I shouldn't be saying this right now because, surely, people tell you about your rightness all the time—"

"Ron."

"But, yeah, it's been difficult." He cleared his throat and fidgeted. "It's been hell, actually, refraining from saying this or holding back from doing this. So I thought I'd make it easier on us—"

"You," she corrected, somewhat frostily.

"Right, me," he admitted, "if I just took away the temptation. It's safer that way, I think."

"My god." Hermione rested her face in her hands, both mortified and amused. "You really think me some sort of libertine, don't you? I mean, we were joking before, but—"

"Hermione," he laughed out loud. It was such a nice, genuine sound. Full. Happy. Hermione did not know if she would ever hear him laugh like that again—at least, within her presence. "If there is any possibility of a seduction taking place, I am definitely not the one in danger."

For a moment, Hermione had wondered what on earth had caused the temperature change. Then she realised that, for the first time in a long time, she was blushing like a first year.

"That's … very bold of you, Ron Weasley," she laughed.

He wiggled his eyebrows in an exaggeratedly villainous fashion, and Hermione laughed again.

"You have to go," he told her apologetically, rising. Hermione started to wonder if she had offended him in some way, when he added, amused, "Lawrence will need you."

"Oh? Oh, yes, of course! My coat—"

"I'll get it. Stay here."

Obediently, she stayed while he left the room. "Ron?" she called.

"Yes?"

"If—if there's a need to put some distance between us, it shouldn't be you. I'll move out—"

"Please don't," he yelled back. "At least, not on my account. I've been needing to get out. Mum is smothering me, and if I stay another week, she'll drive me mad." He strode in, coat in one hand, baby carrier in the other.

"I think she is very pleasant," she contradicted with a smile as they walked to the fireplace.

"Yes, but, you're a little touched in the head yourself," Ron informed her with an air of amused apology, and dodged another reprimanding blow. "Birds of a feather and all that," he laughed as she stepped under the mantle.

"When are you leaving?" Hermione asked after the giggles subsided.

"Soon."

"Where?"

"Hermione?"

She looked up at him.

"You're not losing me," he assured her seriously. "We will have time to talk later."

"I know…it just feels as if I am. You said, after all, that we shouldn't spend time together for the sake of our virtue or something like that—"

"I said nothing of the sort," Ron protested with a chuckle. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and nodded. "Go on. Lawrence."

She narrowed her eyes, and defiantly stepped out of the fire place once more. "You're not allowed to use my baby as an excuse. You have to endure labour pains to earn that right."

Ron contemplated the statement, and gestured to himself experimentally. "I have died, you know. Good enough?"

Hermione laughed. She held her hands behind her, and smiled up at him innocently. "Kiss good bye, Ron?"

He winced slightly, and opened his mouth, probably to refuse, but Hermione decided to take that as consent.

He might have resisted at first, but the moment she deepened the kiss, Ron was more than willing to kiss her good bye. He wrapped his arms around her waist, and, distantly, Hermione was aware of her feet leaving the floor. Of course, that was not nearly as distracting as his lips, such a jolting contrast from the rough skin of his jaw.

All the defenses he might have contrived, and all the denials she might have produced faded the moment their lips touched. There was simply no room for falseness in their kisses, and any deception dissolved when Ron lost all fear, and confidently glided his lips across hers again and again. Hermione smiled against him, accidentally making a noise that both surprised her and excited him.

Why was it, she would wonder later on, that some viewed Ron as the good one, and Draco as the dangerous one?

For there was nothing safe about him when Ron's mouth ruthlessly marked her pulse, and there was nothing chaste in the way that his hands traveled knowingly up and down her back. Granted, Hermione was no helpless victim herself, fingers tangling in his long hair to force his lips to hers once more, loving how their mouths clashed in perfect, mad cohesion. Rough as it was, she found it endearing, and feverishly moved her lips to his cheek as he let out a relieved sigh.

"Hermione." It was either an oath or an encouragement, and Hermione was too engrossed with tasting his lips again to care very much.

He was so wonderfully warm, nearly scorching as her fingertips danced along his neck. She needed that heat, with a feral urge whispering to her that if she did grasp at him and slip her hands beneath his collar, all would be lost—

"Well, as thrilled as I am to see this," a new voice bit out impatiently, "am I allowed to interrupt this lewd session to tell the mother her baby won't stop crying?"

Ron dropped her to her feet, none too gently either, and they both turned quickly to see Percy's head take shape in flames in the middle of the fireplace.

Ron leaned to Hermione surreptitiously. "Sad thing is, his head is the same size outside the fireplace as well," he murmured out of the corner of his mouth. The delivery of the words might have been funny if Ron had not been struggling for breath.

She elbowed him. "I'll be there as soon as you're out of the way," she told Percy primly, feeling her face flame up and hoping that no sweat was produced in the process.

Percy nodded, and disappeared. He held her hand as she stepped into place. "We're always interrupted," she noticed sadly.

He nodded absently. "If Percy considers this lewd conduct, I'll wager _his_ virtue is intact," he chuckled, and shook his head. "Right, stupid joke."

"When will you come by?"

"When Harry comes back. I promise," he added when she appeared doubtful. Ron observed her fretting eyes and sighed in irritation, though a small grin stole any of the hurt it might have caused. Hermione fidgeted before him, not knowing what to say as he raked a hand through his hair. "I feel nothing's been done, if you look at me like that," he offered truthfully.

"Yes," she spoke softly, and Ron dropped the smile. "I mean, I feel as if nothing's been solved really … but I feel better."

He had been looking at their feet until she finished. Then Ron met her gaze once more, his smile much wider. "Yeah, me too. More of a 'get it off your chest' row than anything."

"It wasn't a row," Hermione corrected calmly. "It was an honest discussion." Ron merely raised an eyebrow in amusement, and Hermione was forced to secretly acknowledge that, no, nothing truly had been resolved. That was not possible, not until Draco returned, and even then it would be very difficult. Still…nothing could have been solved without knowing how Ron felt about her. She would not have been able to function properly without him.

Hermione gave his hand a quick, tight squeeze before she stepped into the fire place. But, she thought as she found herself at the Burrow and with a sudden armful of Lawrence, it was all okay. Ron was going to come back, and what they had before the terror interrupted them had not faded. He did not hate her, nor her child, and was willing to abstain while waiting for her decision…which was, she thought darkly, a lot more than what Draco had offered.

It was less crowded at the Burrow now. Ginny and Oliver had overcome her fear of pets that euphemistically indicated parenthood, and she visited him often at Hogwarts or Hogsmeade for dinner and lunch. Fred and George, under much insistence from Ron, Molly, and, finally, Arthur, were forced to see the state of their joke shop, mostly because Harry teased them with little fibs of "Seamus has snuck in and ruined your latest shipments" or "Jordan's hired the prettiest clerk the other day, can't speak a word of English, but shows the most impressive pick pocketing techniques …" Charlie and Bill were also forced to return to their jobs, but now were sending so much mail to Ron that a fat stack of unopened ones were sitting under his bed. Ron and Harry were only interested in this shower of brotherly interest whenever Bill or Charlie sent a bulky and promising package.

And Percy…well. Hermione looked at the skinny, tall boy across from her at the table. Poor Percy. Sacked again, due to his unwillingness to leave the Burrow so soon after Ron's return. The company—damn, Hermione still could not remember what it had been—had not been too keen on employing somebody who decided to use seven sick days for his first week on the job. As much as she begrudged Percy and his everlasting annoying ways, she had to admit that it was very admirable the way he had scoffed and tossed the missive in the bin when they sent their last warning. At least unemployment gave him more time to speak with Ron. He did not even tell the family in detail why he was sacked, and the only reason Hermione knew now was because … well … she might have badgered him a little bit.

She was not sorry she had been so irritating, for being tenacious was usually rewarded by the sought for answers. Harry, whenever he attempted to hide why he had lipstick on his collar or smelled like a brewery, called her a "persistent little bugger," which did not bother Hermione in the slightest.

"Whatever you're thinking, stop it," Percy told her shortly, not even looking up from his plate.

Hermione might have ignored him, if not for the fact that she and Percy were the only "children" at the supper table. Ron had sent an owl communicating that he would eat at Hogwarts with Harry before returning home.

"Percy," Molly chided, "You don't know what Hermione was thinking. Even if you did, she has much right to think as anybody else. Really."

"Mental tyranny," Arthur began wisely, wagging a fork full of beef, "has always been a problem in this house hold. Molly, how many times have you told Fred and George to 'not even think' of doing this or that? And—"

"Hermione," Percy cut in loudly, for he saw that Molly was growing more annoyed by each passing word, "has that arrogantly certain expression on her face when she decides to help some unfortunate soul whom she has deemed worthy of her lofty attention."

Hermione remained supremely unperturbed by his unfriendly tone. "And sometimes, "she told him sweetly, "those unworthy, as well."

Arthur laughed, thought better of it when he saw Molly's discouraging motion, and disguised his chuckle as a mediocre cough.

"I just think that," Hermione continued as Percy imitated a deaf wizard, "for your next line of work, you should do what you do best."

"Brilliant! But … damn. How can I make a career," Percy asked the heavens with a mocking frustration, "of ignoring silly little witches and their absurd notions of wisdom? Is it possible? Or am I forever doomed to wander about, jobless yet goal oriented—"

"Let's go over your strong points, shall we?" Hermione sailed over his childish sarcasm with a smile. "And I'll try to stretch them out so you won't be too embarrassed in front of your parents. We know you like to tell others what to do, you like to—"

"Eat in peace," Percy finished in a clipped tone, throwing down his napkin on the table. "I'm sorry, I've lost my appetite."

"I'll just make the arrangements next week if you … " Hermione's words died away as they watched Percy march up the stairs. "Well," she said brightly, "I'm very excited. I've thought about it for a while, actually, and I know for a fact that the company I have in mind is interested."

"Hermione," Molly began slowly, "that's very kind of you, but Percy … well, he likes to do things on his own."

"No matter how much that method leads him astray," Arthur agreed pleasantly. He shrugged. "But I'm sure he appreciates the sentiment."

Hermione nodded, pretended to let the subject drop, but allowed her mind to formulate the plan any way. Troublesome interfering, that's what she knew it to be, but could not help herself. She felt that, if she didn't have these little projects like this during this period of unemployment, then…well, she would go mad.

Ron will like the plan, she assured herself as she helped the Weasleys clean up.

Ron did like the plan. Hermione had taken a small nap after dinner, and had awakened to a loud:

"Will you shut your bleeding mouth? Hermione's sleeping!"

"It's nine thirty!" Harry returned and then let out a pained grunt. "It's not healthy to be sleeping so early."

Hermione groggily donned a robe and opened the door to find two burglars attempting to steal the television. After she had wiped her bleary vision away, Hermione decided not to shout for help, as the two burglars happened to be devilishly handsome.

"We're acting under Fred and George's strict orders," Ron declared defensively as she turned around and flopped back onto the bed. Harry, apparently none too concerned with safety procedures, gently stopped his levitating charm and set the telly on the landing floor, very much in the way of any poor sleepwalker. The boys entered Ginny's room, leaving the door open to guard their stolen merchandise, and sat beside her. "They said they wouldn't let me in unless I had this with me."

"Harry, you said it was a gift to the entire family. You know how much Mr. Weasley loves that thing."

"And I know how much mum hates it," Ron added with a laugh. "It's all right. Harry said we give this to Fred and George, and we replace it with something bigger, to make the twins really jealous."

"Harry, you mustn't squander your money—"

She couldn't finish, as finishing is a little difficult when one's best friend clamps a hand on one's mouth in the rudest and restraining way possible.

"Is there any pleasing this woman?" Harry asked Ron, who sat on Hermione's other side. Ron pretended to ponder the question, and shrugged. Then Ron laughed, for Harry had exclaimed, "Blech! Did you just bite me?"

"Consider it an aggressive kiss," Hermione replied. "And voices low, please, or we'll wake Lawrence."

Three pairs of eyes turned to the cradle by the window, and then two pairs of eyes continued to the open door way, where the stolen good sat patiently.

"Was supper fun?" Ron asked Hermione with a sideways glance.

She could not help but grin. "Why do you ask?"

"Percy told me something."

"Told you what?"

"Nothing that didn't please me," Ron assured her with an amused smile. "What d'you have in mind for him?"

Harry, easily bored with the conversation, rose to check on Lawrence, and then declared his intention to pack the rest of Ron's belongings alone. "But I'm not touching anything unwashed," Harry warned him as he levitated the television once more and began climbing the stair well.

"Damn," Ron muttered as they watched him leave, "that leaves a lot for me to pack up then. Any way, about Percy … brilliant. I like it, even if Percy doesn't it."

"Yes, but his consent is rather important in the scheme, don't you think?" Hermione pointed out laughingly.

"If he doesn't agree, he's a stupid sod any way," Ron snorted, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall.

"It's nice to see that some things go back to normal so soon," she observed with a smile. Ron did not know to what she was referring but shrugged in any case. They spoke of his day, Harry's day, and her day. Ron enjoyed repeating some of the absurd questions a few brave students had posed, and listened with interest to Hermione's comparative descriptions of Percy and Lawrence's faces when she did something neither of them liked. Hermione smiled a little as Ron silently endured her tips as to best fold clothes for the move, and remained stubbornly tight lipped when he confusedly settled his attention on a breast pump. They were joined hours later by a smug Harry, who hinted that Ron ought to be worried about the state of his jumpers. A quick excursion to Ron's room revealed that curiously pervy moths had eaten two holes in the chesty area of the knitted creations, a condition easily remedied by Hermione's wand. Upon their return, Harry was punished in the form of a kick to the shin and a pinch of the ear, and Harry was torn between howling at the pain in his shin or laughing at the fact that Ron had decided to pinch his ear.

"Taking after your mother, eh?"

"Harry," Ron told him tiredly and with just a hint of condescension, "if I had punched you, there would be no one to teach your pupils for the rest of the week."

"Over confident arse."

"Don't speak of yourself that way, Harry," Ron told him absently. He and Hermione had taken to playing a game; he held his hand wide open, palm up, and attempted to quickly close his fingers on hers while her fingertips darted forward and back. "Take the truth in small, gentle doses, to avoid suicidal thoughts."

"If that isn't a sign that I should be sleeping—"

"How on earth is that a sign for slumber?" Hermione wanted to know sensibly, and then laughed, having nearly been caught.

"It isn't," Harry retorted impatiently. "I just wanted a segue, so thank you very much for ruining it."

Hermione watched him go, noticing how slovenly dressed he was and mentally lamented how he took advantage of the big, billowing robes professors wore over their own attire.

Ron caught her fingers, but did not rejoice in his victory when he noticed her distraction. "If it's any consolation," he told her, "that hole in the left shoulder was not there this morning."

There was a hinting, laughing quality in his voice that made her turn to him suspiciously. "And you know who happened to cause it?"

"Erm … today's lesson was how to silently deflect hexes."

"And you deflected one?"

"No," Ron laughed quietly, closing his eyes for a long moment before answering. "I distracted him when a student sent a jinx his way. A fire one, can you believe how young they're learning these things?"

"Are you sure the professors don't mind your interference—er, I meant, observation?"

"I'm sure they do, but we've told them I'll be out of their way soon enough. I prefer the annoyance, as a matter of fact, than what some of them used to do. The way McGonagall used to tear up every time she saw me … bloody unnerving, it was."

"She always liked you."

"I don't remember dishonesty to be a sleepy side affect of yours, Hermione," he noticed, succumbing to a long blink again.

"That's usually because, when we stayed up late, both of us were usually wide awake," she replied frankly. Hermione could not take in his reaction, because she too was experiencing a troublingly long blink. There was pause, and she heard him laugh softly again.

Her back ached, so she leaned far back against the wall beside Ron, snuggling closer when he, eyes still closed, wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"There's Lawrence," she heard Ron say, as if suddenly noticing. Then he gave a slow, sort of silly laugh as he used his free hand to rub his eyes.

Hermione nodded. That was Lawrence …

She rose, later not remembering whether she left Ron's warmth to prevent or stop the crying.

And Ron didn't want to like him…

After a few seconds, minutes, or hours, Hermione laid on the bed with a satisfied sigh. Something had been in her way, but a few sleepy shoves easily gave her the room to relax.

But, didn't that mean that Ron already liked him, and was trying to resist it? Well, that was dumb, for who on earth could avoid liking a baby … There was that Omen movie she saw a while back, but there were always exceptions …

Her eyes snapped open, suddenly realising there had been a stretching silence between them. She was slow to grasp for something relevant to say, and idly wondered how long ago it had been since either had uttered a word.

The sensible thing to do was suggest his relocation to his own bed, when Ron awoke with a start and struck the back of his head on the wall. "Shit," he swore sitting up straight with a wince, "my neck hurts like hell."

Hermione observed him dazedly. "You know, I've never understood those phrases. 'Like hell,' I mean. Really, how does any body know how much hell hurts or how hot it is or how cold it is or—" As she spoke, a strangely adorable growl emitted from the cradle, and Hermione absently strolled to Lawrence's side while Ron attempted to realign his skeleton.

"Did you hear it crack?" Ron asked drowsily moving his head from left to right. "I swear it must have cracked five times ..."

Hermione's giggle was heavily tainted with slumber, resulting in a strange, bubbly snore. "You should get to bed," she advised, grinning with eyes half closed.

Ron did not say another word, and was obediently stretching out on her bed before Hermione could blink.

_I'll move him_, she decided after a long moment's confusion. It was the frightening thought of putting forth effort to lift him off of her that forced her to stand still long enough to hear him snoring. _Yes_, she decided with a little more firmness, _it is time to move him._

Hermione awoke facing the wall, curled quite comfortably within the curve of Ron behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist and her arms clasping his arms. All of which would have been very pleasant if not for Lawrence's demanding wails. Now was the time to attend to him, obviously, but she did not want to wake Ron, whose night life thievery undoubtedly exhausted him. The witch frowned at the wall in disappointment. _Where had that 'I will move him' idea gone?_

As she fed her favourite screamer, she listened for a while, noticing how it was too early for even Mrs. Weasley to be up and about. Hermione was glad that Ron had slept on his side, and not on his back, for then she wouldn't have been able to hear any thing else but the thunder of his snores. Time to get him out of bed, she decided with a heavy sigh after Lawrence showed signs of satisfaction and Hermione crawled into the bed once more. Ron had made some sort of vow of chastity the other day, and it would be very rude of her to keep him in her bed without some effort of saving his virtue.

She managed to pry his hands open, giving her enough room to sit up, and—

Hermione woke up again, mentally cursing her mind for it's lack of self control, and propped herself up on her elbows to look over Ron's shoulder and notice the sunlight in the window. By her estimation it was a little after nine. But more interesting than the time of day was the holder of her baby.

"Shame on you," George scolded, subtracting the harm of one infantile slap by opening his mouth to playfully bite Lawrence's hand. "With a child in the room? Shameful, absolutely shameful."

Hermione frowned at him, rolling her eyes. From beside her, Ron made a protesting grunt, and did not even open his eyes to point out sleepily, "We're both dressed, idiot."

"Well, excuse me for trying to improve your reputation as a man," George snorted, crossing to the room and leaving Lawrence in Hermione's arms. In the same second, the twin grabbed Ron's arm and dragged the mostly slumbering boy out of bed. Hermione was ready to speak against such violence, but Ron, evidently accustomed to such rough treatment, only mumbled something about the smell of bacon as he was dragged out.

Naturally, Lawrence began to grunt unhappily the moment nobody was available to help her, and by the time Hermione had seen to her son, showered, and changed, Ron and George had already finished their breakfast and were bickering over the table as she sat down.

"So are you going to steal Ron away again or what?"

"I wasn't aware he was a victim of abduction."

"Willing," Ron spoke up cheerfully. "Most willing stolen victim."

"Actually, I was going to see Poppy today," Hermione told the two. "I was wondering if—"

"Misses me, does she?" George spoke up flippantly. He gave a modest wave of his hand that somehow conveyed waves of arrogance. "I can't say I'm surprised. I noticed how much she enjoyed my attention—"

"I wanted to meet her," Ron overrode George's rubbish with crushing volume, "but Harry warns me that she lives with monsters?"

"Harry, I'm sorry to say, is hopelessly prejudiced against the woman," Hermione replied loudly when George began mumbling compliments Poppy had never given him.

"He says that she mistreats her children."

"More like her children mistreat the world," George muttered under his breath.

"They are _her_ children," Hermione said defensively. Although she did not agree with the Porpingtons' decision, Hermione had faith in her friend, and her daughters. By the time they were of age to attend Hogwarts, Poppy would see reason by then.

"Not entirely hers," Ron said sensibly. "If the father's side want some say in their rightful education, then I don't see why she—"

"The 'father's' side has been very negligent until very recently," Hermione argued, annoyed that he would side with Harry on a matter he did not know very well. "And the only reason they are suddenly involved is because they want something from them."

"Yeah," Ron retorted with an awful tone of excess agreement, "because three titchy monsters have so much in value. Come on, Hermione, Nick just wants to see his family."

"Sir Nicholas just wants to see his family line continued at Hogwarts," she retorted, crossing her arms.

"Are we still talking about Poppy and her children?" George asked confusedly. "Because, really, that doesn't sound like Nick to me."

"Me neither," Ron added defiantly.

"You know nothing about the situation," Hermione snapped. "And what knowledge you have of it isn't much better," she added, addressing George.

"Sir Nick said a lot to me about it," Ron informed her, peeved. "And I feel right sorry for the bloke. If this Poppy woman just took the time to—"

"Why was Sir Nicholas talking to you?" Hermione asked suddenly.

Ron shrugged uncomfortably. "I happen to be a very good listener." George choked on his drink, and Ron paused to slap his older brother's back helpfully.

"He wanted you to butter me up," Hermione spoke with offended realisation. "I'll wring his neck!"

"That'll be entertaining," George mused.

"Don't flatter yourself," Ron rebuked uneasily. "Why would he talk to me, to talk to you, to talk to Poppy? It seems a rather undependable way to get to a woman."

"Unless you're twelve," George agreed.

Ron and Hermione took that opportunity to simultaneously order for George's immediate silence, a suggestion the twin only agreed to because his father had entered the room and declared it a most amicable instruction. The three sat in thinly veiled annoyance, finishing their breakfast, while a baby and a father sat in oblivious contentment. By the time Arthur left for work, the silence had done enough imaginary havoc in Hermione's mind that she was quite sure that Ron was the most pigheaded male to have ever lived.

"I don't see any point in introducing you to my dear friend," Hermione said, rising to clear her plate, "if you are so set against her."

George hopefully handed his empty plate to Hermione as she left the table, and was pointedly ignored.

"Well, I don't see any point in coming along, if you're so set against me not being set against her," Ron shot back with a frown. Whether it was a frown of anger towards her or a frown of puzzlement towards his own statement, Hermione neither knew nor cared.

"Fine," she chirped with contrived nonchalance, picking up Lawrence's baby carrier and striding towards the closet for her coat.

"Fine," Ron returned with equal indifference, jerkily rising to his own feet to bring his plate to the sink. Again, George attempted to have his plate cleaned for him, and, again, he failed.

"I suppose I won't see you for a while then," Hermione continued airily as she finished the buttons on Lawrence's tiny grey coat. "With you so busy with moving and having your mind filled with absolute rubbish and all."

"Of course," Ron agreed with cynically pleasant smile, "and with you, nurturing friendships with mad women and their oppressive ways. It makes for a very busy schedule."

"Ooh!" Hermione fumed after she had cheerfully waved good bye with one particular finger and stepping outside. "That horrible, horrible man. I don't know what I see in him!"

Although she momentarily did not know what she saw in him, Hermione certainly thought a great deal of him while she rode the train to Poppy's. A man had been kind enough to help her with Lawrence's stroller as she boarded, but Hermione could not fully return his smile as she pondered the Weasley.

She thought of their last, real, coherent conversation. She thought of how he, unlike Harry, did not fiddle with this or play with that when speaking of disquieting subjects, such as their doubts about each other and her current situation. She thought of how he did not hesitate to take Lawrence to the attic and sort through fan letters with him. She remembered how he didn't jump with concern like his brothers had whenever Lawrence would make the smallest of noises, but instead would regard him with the same curiosity a small boy would show for a new neighbor. Interested, but wary. It wasn't exactly a fatherly attitude, nor even a brotherly attitude, for which Hermione had hoped.

Then again, Hermione thought with a sigh as the train sped to a stop, Ron had other things on his mind besides the delicate behaviour needed for one's enemy's baby mothered by one's first love. The same suited man helped Lawrence's stroller onto the platform and, when he inevitably hinted, she assured him that she was happily married but the friend she was visiting would be happy for a father for her triplets. He was less than enthusiastic.

Ron was still occupied by settling in, of course. What with reading ten newspapers by day, getting the proper stories behind five of those articles at night, moving out of the Burrow, moving in with the twins—

She paused just before Poppy's building. It was uncharacteristically late of her, true, but Hermione blamed that on lack of sleep and the sheer incredulity of it. Was that what he meant by stealing the telly for Fred and George? "Ron's moving in with them?"

Lawrence confirmed it as they rolled into the lift to Poppy's third floor flat. Well, Lawrence said something like, "Eeeyuh," which Hermione understood to imply agreement.

It wasn't that she disliked the twins. That would be impossible. But Fred and George's treatment of Hermione slightly differed from the treatment they gave Ron. They were just a tad bit …

"Mean," Hermione said, indignant on Ron's behalf, as Poppy's door swung open.

"Oh, shut up," Poppy huffed, wagging a fork at her. "I know it's ill mannered not to wait for the guest, but damn it, Hermione, I'm hungry and you're late for brunch."

As always, Hermione felt a pang of jealousy as she wheeled Lawrence into the flat. It was not that the Porpington residence was so very lavish; in fact, it was a sofa and stove away from madhouse. All sorts of broken toys scattered the carpeted floor, sometimes piled into a corner like a childish graveyard. In between the fractured play things lay dusty antiques and literature not fit for sweet little girls, formerly posh women, or any body of good breeding, but certainly adored by all four females of the house hold.

She was jealous because Poppy was established. This was her anchor, what separated her from normal people and nomads.

"Are you having nomadish thoughts again?" Poppy asked with a critical eye as she loaded a plate of waffles for her.

"Maybe," Hermione murmured petulantly, repairing the shattered remains of a genuine sang de beouf vase before accepting her meal.

"You're very silly, you know. It's wonderful to not have a home, and not deal with rent or taxes or how your neighbor is threatening legal action because of one tiny, blood shedding prank—"

"But I want to be settled," Hermione complained, knowing and hating the whine in her tone. While there was very little right to complain about anything when a whole family was willing to shelter her, and possibly keep her baby for all eternity when she wasn't looking, Hermione still wished to be on her own. Not for the independence, per se, but for the sensibility of it. To be a twenty year old unwed mother of no employment was bad enough. To add homeless to the list would certainly begin gray hairs.

Harry told her it was because her everlasting habit of "doing things right," which, she supposed was true. Convention stated that an adult must have their own abode, and Hermione had deviated from convention so much she wanted to do at least one normal thing since reaching age.

"Tell you what," Poppy said comfortingly as she set two large glasses of milk at the table. The top of said table was slightly sticky, a reminder of the three girls who had breakfasted there before leaving for their unfortunate school a few hours earlier. "We'll sell that pitcher you just fixed—"

"It was a vase," she corrected, both amused and slightly appalled that Poppy could not keep track of her careless, priceless heirlooms.

"Yes, yes, and you can live next door once Barry moves out. Couldn't take it, you know," she added, attempting to look chagrined at the behaviour of her children and failing proudly.

"It's tempting," Hermione laughed, looking to Lawrence to see how he liked the idea. Lawrence was of no opinion.

"Of course, for a Chinese sang de beouf, you could always just get two flats, demolish the wall and—"

"I don't think that will work out," Hermione interrupted gently. "I'll want to be near the others, you know."

Yes, she did know, but, no, Poppy was not eager to speak of it. Although she adored Mrs. Weasley—indeed, Hermione suspected that Poppy was in awe of the woman who could handle "those horrendous seven"—Poppy did not like to refer to wizards and witches very much nowadays. Whether it was because she had saved her daughters from that lifestyle with unabashed relief, or because she had always been disdainful of such folklore before, Hermione did not know. All she knew was that, whenever any mention of magic was made, Poppy's smile lost a little brilliance.

"Of course you do," Poppy agreed. That in itself was a sign of discomfort, for Poppy rarely so readily agreed to anything. She was the type to argue for the sake of arguing, and yet still wondered why Henri was so eager to do the same thing.

"So," the Muggle woman continued with a brighter grin, "what did you do yester-Poppy-less-day? I played bridge with your former neighbors."

Hermione took a deep breath before speaking, with a great look of contemplation on her face. This was not out of the ordinary, even for the simplest of questions, and Poppy helped herself to extra helpings while Hermione formulated her response.

Some time ago, Hermione had decided that she needed some advice from a person who had no prior opinion of Draco Malfoy and Ronald Weasley. Most of the people within the wizarding community had some sort of opinion of both men, and therefore not a reliable source of an honest, uncoloured opinion. Naturally, she needed someone who was not afraid to speak her mind when it came to matters of which she had no inkling.

Hermione found herself spilling every single detail of the honest-discussion-that-was-not-a-row. Her voice had been excitedly quiet at first, and, at one moment, became shaky with tears. A stunned and brunch-filled Poppy sat quietly throughout the narration, only moving to see if her waffles had grown cold.

"So …" Poppy began, expression both confused and a bit moist as well—Hermione suspected the "I've never known how to stop loving you" bit might have touched the hard woman's heart—"So…you and this Ron fellow … you're on standby?"

Hermione, who had been poking at her own waffles in a dazed manner, snapped her gaze back up with an alarmed frown. "Good lord, Poppy. Don't make us sound like a ship ready to launch."

"But, in essence," Poppy said in a no nonsense tone, moving to make fresh waffles, "it's what you are. You're just waiting for the coast to be clear."

"I am not—"

"Well, then he is. And, I'm sorry if this sound skeptical of me, but … _really_?" Poppy's expression was a comical one. She had shown the exact sort of cautious skepticism when a craving-plagued Hermione once announced her declaration to drink milk two days past its expiration date. "Is that what he really wants?"

"What?"

"It's just that, if a man said to me that we ought to abstain from any lewd behaviour until he was certain he had my heart—"

"Ron didn't say that! He would never say that," Hermione added thoughtfully, contemplating Ron's plain way of speaking.

"Well, if he _basically_ said that to me, I would worry he was either gay, or offering a strange form of verbal foreplay. The promise of commitment makes women extremely randy, and some blokes use this Achilles' heel to their advantage."

It was some time before Hermione could respond to the woman's matter of fact accusation. She was too busy gesturing in frustration and viciously stabbing her cold brunch to even give an answer.

"You don't know him," she finally ground out.

Poppy shrugged, and returned to the small table with a fresh pile of waffles. "You're right. I don't. And I don't think I've ever met any man willing to not have sex—unless he's afraid?"

"Afraid," Hermione repeated faintly, once again forgetting the meal. Yes, that would make sense. Ron hadn't had any girl besides her, and they had never progressed past—

"Yes. Of the law. He was … what? Fourteen when you last left him and you said yourself that he hadn't aged while he was away—"

"Seventeen, and shut up," Hermione ordered, ignoring Poppy's laughter. Not a moment later she chastised herself, for she certainly hadn't planned to seek Poppy's opinion by telling her to shut up.

In her heart, Hermione knew that a never ending amount of loved ones' opinions could not help her. It was a decision she dreaded making, but it was also a decision she couldn't bear to leave to someone else to make for her. That would have been impossible.

Still, her mind continued, swiftly leaving the desolation behind, it was best to have all aspects of a problem, so that one could grasp for the best possible solution. And one person alone was not capable of seeing all aspects unless that person was a genius—

"Erm…you do know that you're speaking aloud, right?" Poppy asked with only a smattering of interest. "That disjointed habit you have is almost annoying—"

"Poppy," Hermione interrupted apologetically.

"Hermione," Poppy responded quickly and offering a hand. "Pleased to meet you, and I must say, I envy your name."

Hermione ignored this insult, shook the hand, and continued with, "I've got to warn you. Sometimes, usually when I've reached this sort of mental and-or spiritual climax—"

"Sounds fun."

"I have an urge to talk at great length about something, very swiftly and very emotionally, explaining my feelings or my situation—"

"You've got to warn me about your required behaviour as a woman?" Poppy asked, confused.

"No. I've got to warn you that I'm going to explain that 'complicated' past of Draco's I've never talked about, and that I'm going to explain the exact situation in which I left Ron, and that, most likely, I will cry a great deal."

When a girl, particularly Hermione Granger, spoke so frighteningly seriously and, as accurately described, rapidly as she had done just then, the most one could do is blink.

Poppy blinked.

Then she prepared herself for a long sitting and a numb bum by going to the loo, fetching a clean handkerchief from the depths of her closet, and giving them each a long glass of milk.

Lawrence continued to have no opinion, for both the imminent complicated discussion and for any dairy beverages.

She outlined her friendships with Harry and Ron at Hogwarts. She vaguely mentioned the less than amiable terms they were on with Draco Malfoy. Apologetically, she mentioned that the bizarre accidents happening to Muggles during the year prior around the country were not exactly coincidental. Haltingly, the details of Draco's flexible loyalties and Harry's sacrifice left her lips—not specifically what Harry had done with Tom Riddle, for she respected Harry for too much to let that slip. She explained what had happened after the war and how she—supposedly, for the memories were still a bit fuzzy through no fault of her own—helped Draco through several periods of mourning out of a sense of duty or pity. It was difficult, to say the least, to describe Draco's way of repaying her kindness without painting him as a complete and utter bastard. But, to do that, Hermione would be forced to give the details of the less "bastardy" side of him, and, truth be told, she was slightly shy to share those memories with any one. The reasons for such privacy were based on Draco's right to privacy, and her own sheer greed of being privy to Draco's less than despicable side while no one else ever was.

Still, her editing of his editing did very little to minimize Poppy's hatred for him. Hermione was beginning to see why so many people despised censorship so violently. Nothing ever turned out right with a lie, so it was best to tell the truth.

"How wrong," Poppy cut Hermione off mid sentence. Poppy was rarely, if ever, speechless. But the account of one man snipping and erasing memories for the sake of true love did get her very close. "How completely…utterly…fuckably wrong."

"Yes," Hermione said apologetically. She thought she might be showing apology for Draco's behaviour and her concealment of the whole truth. "Yes, well, perhaps I phrased it badly."

"Is there a way to phrase it better?"

Hermione bit her lip worriedly. "It would be difficult, but I've a wonderful vocabulary—"

"Then I won't hear it. Go on, continue before I—"

It was at that point that Poppy mentioned a threat to Draco's person that disturbed Hermione so greatly that she immediately erased it from her mind not two seconds later.

To her credit, Hermione did not cry. Oh, her eyes grew glassy as she described the trial, and Draco's lack of remorse—"He doesn't have the decency to apologise insincerely, like a real man!" Poppy had fumed—the triad needed for Ron's return, Draco's bout of forgetfulness, the stalemate she and Ron had reached until Draco's return, until …

Now.

"The only thing I am capable of at the moment," Hermione said quietly, "is making sure I don't cause Ron any more pain. That's why I shouldn't want to kiss him or accidentally say lewd thoughts aloud about him … because the least I can do is respect his wishes, right?"

Poppy nodded, but Hermione was already speaking.

"But I do hurt him." Her voice was bitter and low. "I know I do. My god, Poppy, if you had just heard him … I understand. I understand to miss someone, and then find them again, only to learn that they've forgotten bits of you. And Draco hadn't even done that to me, Poppy, I've done it to myself. I don't know what broke us up, and, truthfully, I don't want to."

"Why not?" Poppy asked, trying to be both sensible and sensitive. Hermione flinched any way. "You say that you remembering would lessen his pain so why not do it? Even if hurts you for a moment, it would make him happy, wouldn't it?"

It was a policy that Hermione could not fully comprehend, but one that Poppy had lived by for years. She ignored the last bit tactfully, and only explained: "Suppose I do use magic to retrieve those blocked memories. Suppose I do see that night before that morning. What if it makes sense? What if what we fought about made the whole engagement a farce? I couldn't bear it, Poppy. Why is it so terrible that I would want to remember the good parts, and not the bad?"

"Because," Poppy argued heatedly, "It's not fair. You two were, as you said, interrupted. Cut short. Because of that, he believes that you should cherish any moment you might have had together—the good and the bad. And yet here you are, still peeved at Draco for taking away your memories with _him_. It's a bloody double standard, and you know it, Hermione. Wanting those memories with the bastard who wronged you, but voluntarily avoiding a memory that matters so much to a man who did nothing but love you? It's wrong."

"Peeved," Hermione repeated dangerously. "He stole from me! No matter who I was with or what I had done in those memories, they were mine. And that memory with Ron is mine as well, and I should do what I want with it—"

"All right, all right," Poppy interrupted. Calming down, Hermione recognised her tone to be one that was supposed to be soothing, but was just a strident note short from commanding. "I understand that." She gave a small smile. "I was just trying to comply your incoherent mumbling."

Hermione understood that, and smiled slightly. She also comprehended the fact that Poppy was inclined to see the opposite side of a conflict, and was not necessarily attacking Hermione's way of thinking. Hearing the truth, she remembered, wasn't always what one wanted to hear. Besides, although she disagreed with Poppy's black and white view of the matter, it might be the same way Ron viewed things, even if he was not aware of the specific reasons himself.

The next hour was awkward, which was new, for Hermione had never felt anything but perfectly at ease ever since she accidentally spilled Poppy's milk. She had assumed it was because she and the Muggle were perfectly compatible for one another, but now could not help but wonder if the source of the friendly flow was Poppy's cheerful effort. The woman smiled sympathetically as they cleaned up the table and washed and dried the dishes, but did not offer another word of insight.

She hated that. Why was it easier to talk to boys than girls? Her friendship with Ginny, after all, required more maintenance than her friendship with Harry. And now, because they both spoke their minds, they were both afraid to offend one another.

The phone rang as it neared lunch time. As Hermione tended to Lawrence, Poppy's telephone rang, and the Muggle woman winced. Hermione could practically read her mind as she reached for the phone. Another trip to the headmaster's office.

"Hello?" Poppy gave another sympathetic, if not slightly irksome smile to Hermione, who returned with equal politeness. "Speaking…no thank you, I'm not interested. Have a ni—Yes, I know, but I don't want—if you would just let me finish…" Poppy tsked and set her hand on her hip. "You know what, I didn't want a credit card but now that you persuaded me so suavely, I'm sold. Good thing too, because I've gone nearly broke because of my cocaine habit, but no worries there mate, I've left that for a nutmeg binge, much cheaper and—" Poppy paused, and gave a shocked noise. "He hung up!"

"Karma dictates you shall be a telemarketer in your next life, given the way you treat them," Hermione joked as she zipped up her jumper and sat on the couch.

"I tried to be polite," Poppy pointed out breezily, settling beside her. "May I hold him?"

Hermione grinned genuinely this time and nodded. Watching Poppy speak full, coherent sentences to Lawrence made her realise how much she appreciated the young mother. Because she had been a mother, she understood the annoying assumption that it was perfectly all right to lift an infant out of the mother's hands without permission, as some were wont to do in their adoration of Lawrence.

"I have a feeling he'll be handsome," Poppy warned Hermione as she kissed Lawrence's nose.

"He's barely two months old," Hermione laughed. "We don't even know if he'll keep that hair colour."

"Nothing is wrong with changing what's yours," Poppy said with a sniff, giving her own dark brown waves a little toss. "And I'm usually right about these things. I predicted a cousin's daughter of mine would be ugly as our grandmother, and I was absolutely accurate."

"You're incorrigible," Hermione sighed.

"Well, to be truthful, my cousin wasn't very pretty either. But, you have wonderful features, and they would look wonderful on a boy too."

"I'm only half of his genetic make up."

"But I haven't seen the other half," Poppy said carelessly. "So I'll just base my prediction on you."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, fidgeting a great deal before reaching for her pocket. "Well … I did bring some clippings …"

They exchanged men. Hermione focused on the wide eyed Lawrence while Poppy focused on the photograph. She was unsure if Poppy stared so intently because of Draco's defiant handsomeness, or because it was the first moving wizarding photograph she had ever seen.

"Well …" Poppy said neutrally after a few moments. "Lawrence will definitely avoid homeliness."

Hermione nodded, not knowing what to say. It was clear that Poppy was not pleased with him, no matter how handsome Draco appeared to be. It was not a newspaper clipping of anything from the trials. Hermione had found an old article that Ron did not care to read, one about the death of Zabini. Photographers had chosen to capture one of Zabini's few mourners as they left the funeral, and Draco had boldly met the camera's gaze as he walked away. A few would have mistaken the lack of expression on his face as a façade to cover the mourning. Now everybody knew that his cold visage was only concealing satisfaction in a job well done.

"Do you have a photograph of Ron?" she asked, tilting her head to observe Draco's aristocratic languidness better. She may not like him, Hermione observed while she reached into her other pocket, but she certainly did not hate his face.

Hermione handed her another newspaper clipping. It was not close as Draco's had been, for it only showed Ron walking into the Ministry with Arthur, and at some distance. Arthur had become somewhat notorious for dealing with unwanted press rather harshly. But the photographer must have called out something, for Ron looked back before walking out of frame.

"He's different," Poppy commented with some surprise.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean … well, girls usually have a type, you know? You look at this one, and one would assume you go for the undeservedly blessed ones." Poppy held up the Draco picture as if she could not tear her eyes away from it. "But then you see Ron, and he's … well, different."

"Ron's handsome," Hermione said defensively.

"I didn't say he wasn't," Poppy retorted calmly, looking at Ron's photograph once more. "They're just so … different. Clearly, you don't follow a pattern, as I do. Is that a particularly thick pullover he's wearing?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

"Nothing. Just admiring his arms. I like them that way, you know, muscled, but not ostentatiously muscled—"

Hermione snatched both clippings from Poppy's hands. "Keep your eyes off of Ron's muscles, please," she requested with a prim smile.

"Can't wait to meet him in person," Poppy teased.

Hermione said nothing of this morning's argument with Ron so far, and would not do so now. "I will not let you molest him, in the odd event I do let you within a thirty mile radius."

"It's all right. I'm a professional stalker." She handed Hermione the clipping of Draco Malfoy. "You know, I always thought Harry looked ridiculous in those wizard robes, but that bloke actually makes it all look dashing."

"And he knows it," Hermione observed wryly as she looked at the photo. "You know, I don't even remember this? The article said that I was there, but I don't remember attending the funeral or hearing of the death at all." She shook her head, lips twisting a small, bitter smile. "Lucky for me the press likes to document my moves, or I'd be lost."

For a moment, Poppy said nothing as Hermione tucked the slip of paper back into her pocket. The silence lengthened as Hermione laid a slumbering Lawrence into his stroller. Finally, when Hermione could no longer bear the unexpected stillness and was ready to speak, Poppy spoke up in a subdued, distracted tone.

"And yet you find it so difficult to make a decision?"

From where her instantly arctic demeanor came, Hermione could not fathom. Perhaps it was because she was both tired of wracking her mind over this ordeal, and discussing how she was wracking her mind over this ordeal. Or, perhaps, she had simply picked up a few habits from the one she complained of so often.

"Yes," she retorted icily. "Forgive me if I'm slightly hesitant when it comes to hurting others' feelings."

"You don't have to worry about hurting somebody's feelings if that person's already hurt you," Poppy replied, apparently immune to Hermione's stinging words.

"He … It was only done because—" She bit her tongue. How was there any way to defend what Draco had done? Flailing, she tried another tactic desperately. "I'm sure that, when he returns, he'll be willing to answer any questions I'll have about the memories he took."

Hermione could see that it was becoming increasingly difficult for Poppy to avoid somberness. 1"You speak ... you speak like it's such a horrible thing. You believe that you actually wish you could remember all the moments, all the humiliation."

Hermione could only watch her, uncertain and slowly defensive as they approached yet another untouched subject. It was selfish, horrifyingly selfish, to wish evasion of the looming words. After all, hadn't Poppy just listened to her woes without a word of impatience or awkwardness? So why was prickly unease unfurling in the pit of her stomach?

Shifting slightly, Hermione spoke with deliberate firmness, determined not to be cowered into guilt. "That's just it. I don't even remember if there was humiliation. He stole those moments away–"

"No," Poppy cut in forcefully. "No. No, you don't want to remember what it's like to have the man you love hurt you. You don't want to remember how it feels to ask yourself why you love him, how could you love him, and yet stay. You don't and _won't_ like the feeling of letting him cut you, and bruise, and force you ... and seeing his face, with that hidden smile ... He knows you'll never leave. He knows that you love him. He knows that you'll never leave, because while he's the worst thing that ever happened to you, love is the best."

She was looking away now, blinking rapidly as her gaze focused upon the destruction caused by her daughters. "So don't go on like that Hermione, at least, not in front of me. Because I'll envy you, how I envy you for not remembering."

"But it's different. It's different. Your ex hurt you because he was a sadist, a bastard with security issues," she lashed out desperately, not caring if her blunt words made her wince. "Draco hurt me because–"

"Because he had to," Poppy finished dully. "Because he couldn't live without you? Because he just loved you so much–"

"Shut up!" It was different! Draco meant it, and he wasn't just giving clichés to justify himself, he was just in love— "Shut up! It's different, it's different! He loves me!"

"He loved me as well," Poppy argued, hurt flashing in her eyes. Never before had Hermione witnessed such vulnerability. "Are you saying that, because my wounds were more physical than yours, he didn't love me? At least my scars fade! He'd kiss them and they'd fade! He was–"

Poppy stopped, thrown by the horrified look on Hermione's face. "What?" she demanded angrily. "What, damn it, what?"

But Hermione could not explain that Poppy's face had some how changed slightly, lines blurring and colours rippling until, miraculously, frozenly, Hermione saw herself clinging to the tatters of a splintered love. She could not divulge that she had observed her own desperate soul drowning in Poppy's eyes.

"Don't look at me like that," Poppy requested quietly, misinterpreting Hermione's horror for pity. "Don't. People always feel sorry for women like me, as if I was too stupid to know better. Women like me are not stupid. We're not stupid for staying. We were just..." She shrugged helplessly, her whole body trembling as she fought more tears. "The same thing that drove him to hurt me was the same thing that made me stay. It made _them_ do the unthinkable by hurting us, and it made _us_ do the unthinkable by remaining. We were just in love."

But there was no "we," Hermione wished to protest softly. A heavy, sinking coldness was spreading throughout her form, smothering her half hearted contradictions with blind indifference. She was not included in that sad, silent category. What happened between Poppy and her husband, and what happened between herself and Draco were two entirely different things.

_Why_, she asked herself viciously. _Because Mr. Porpington hadn't used magic?_

"When it gets to the point," Poppy spoke in an almost automatic manner. Little girl lost, reciting her lines like a comforting prayer. "That love feels like a chain, then you have to stop. Even if he cries. Even if he begs. Even if he ... he ... he promises to stop doing all the things that hurt you ..."

She could not go on. Hermione stared through her tear-blurred gaze at the Muggle woman, who bit her lip so forcefully, who wrung her hands so tightly. Poppy was crying, obviously, but how odd that Hermione spied the smallest of smiles on her trembling lips, as if biting back a secret laugh. What was that for? Laughing at him, and how desperate he was? Laughing at herself, for believing his pleas? Or at the tragic comedy that was true love?

Whatever the reason, Hermione did not like it. She thought it an ugly smile, the most offensive of grins, and inwardly swore to never carry such a vile laughter inside her.

Poppy had recovered enough to be anxious while Hermione strapped Lawrence in properly. Hermione knew that she should have met her gaze and assured that their friendship was still quite intact, but the ghostly reminder of what she might be was too much to face once more. Never looking directly at her as she departed, Hermione spoke in her friendliest tone, stating that she was to be extraordinarily busy the rest of the week and she might not be able to make the next brunch appointment.

"But," she said, spying and then hating the openly worried expression on Poppy's face as the woman stood before the sliding doors of the lift," should you need me, just call."

But she and Poppy did not have any sort of communication … at least, not until several days later.

xoxox

_I'll show him the same amount of respect he shows me_, Ron had written warningly. Hermione had received the owl a few moments ago, and was absently petting Pig as she read the missive in the garden.

_Which seems to be very little. I don't know what sort of upbringing he's had, but, damn it, there are rules amongst men—no matter how different the two men are._

_Really_, Hermione thought, Ron was surely overreacting. After years of endurance, he should have managed to build some sort of immunity to the mistreatment.

_Directly for my crotch, Hermione, and while I ate breakfast too! Why doesn't Crookshanks abuse Fred or George in the same way? Who, you should know, did absolutely nothing while I nearly lost my gender to your furry pig. _

Well, Hermione conceded, nose wrinkling with pity, perhaps that was a justified reason to force Crookshanks to sleep on the window ledge for the past two days. Boys tended to be rather protective of … well, the things that made them boys.

_The only consolation is that Fred laughed so hard he placed his hand directly on the hot stove. I mean, yeah, he got it fixed and everything, but, for an hour or so, he had one bloody ugly hand._

The tale was so pointless that it was barely worth the exhausting journey Pig had endured, and it definitely had not merited the prettily embossed stationary Ron had taken to using. She liked to think that he used such heavy, ornamental paper because he cared, but suspected that there was some strange back story to his careful mailing habits. Unfortunately, Pig was forced to fatigue himself on a daily basis, now that she and Ron were maintaining their chaste distances. He had not exactly banned her from the flat, but Hermione knew that if she were to visit things would grow stilted and awkward. If Ron didn't manage to remind them of the strenuous circumstances, then surely the teasing of his two brothers would.

So, as an alternative, they wrote to each other, several times a day, for the past few days, about absolutely nothing. Hermione had personalised Lawrence's wellies with Gryffindor symbols, and she informed Ron as soon as the paint had dried. Ron found this interesting, and sent a small matching hat fashioned out of very nice parchment. Hermione teased him of his origami skills. Ron sent back a crumpled wad of paper, which Hermione had confusedly thought to be a blank message, until Pig's second missive explained that it had actually been a complicated origami snow ball. Hermione had tied it to the mobile above Lawrence's cradle.

Occasionally, George wrote to Hermione as well, requesting more scarlet messages, for it was no fun invading his little brother's privacy if the subjects were perfectly clean.

It was sad to say that her exchanges with Ron were the most exciting things in her current life. After that disastrous—or was it enlightening?—brunch with Poppy, Hermione had returned to the Burrow with renewed determination. _No more sitting around, damn it_, she thought that night. No more waiting. It wasn't what the old Hermione did when embroiled in a dilemma, and it wasn't what the Hermione-of-age was ready to do either. She was going to solve it herself.

But that, of course, involved finding Draco. Hermione, eager to recapture the stealth of her younger days, had dressed in all black to see if he had taken her up on the offer of staying at the Granger house. It was more of a hope than a calculated possibility, for she hadn't even told him the address, or where the spare key was hidden, or which neighbors wouldn't be too keen on any suspicious doings. Back in the days of his flattering yet disturbing obsession of her, the need to inform him of these things might have been nonexistent. But since nobody, not even the careless executor of the spell, knew how or when Draco's memory recovered, Hermione worried for him even if he did manage to find her old home.

Harry wildly disapproved of any missions whatsoever. He agreed, grudgingly, that, yes Lawrence was quite adorable in his all black ensemble as well. And that the knitted cap was the best creation of Hermione's yet, despite the fact that it had a beret-ish feel to it and made Larry look like a titchy French mime. But, he had argued, they both looked utterly ridiculous with their cloak and dagger routine considering it was broad daylight and no sane detective brought along a new baby on the job.

Hermione would not have told him at all. He had wheedled the information out of her when, unexpectedly, he was at Number Twelve when she snuck in to find some old trainers. At first, Harry had been insulted that she expected his feet to be so small. When she assured him that she meant to search for the ones he wore when he was much younger, Harry then turned suspicious. The exciting foray turned into a quick chaperoned stop, during which Harry held Lawrence in the common room while Hermione checked all the old, cold rooms. As he expected, she was quite eager to leave.

She had not seen much of Harry since then. Apparently, neither had Ron. Other than sending an old pair of trainers, magically minimized to fit Lawrence, Harry was too preoccupied with a side project to speak to either of them for a few days.

Thankfully, today was Saturday, and Harry had invited them both to eat at Number Twelve. He had even sent a miniature invitation to Lawrence, who appreciated it so much he spared it a glance before napping.

She managed to return inside the Burrow just before Lawrence called for her. Well, not so much as "call" but Hermione liked to think that he wailed at such a god awful pitch because he hadn't quite mastered the word "please" just yet.

By the time she arrived, once again over wrapped because she had been unable to escape Mrs. Weasley's concern, Hermione was not surprised to see the food partially nibbled on, and the boys sitting in the attic with absurdly innocent expressions on their face.

"I'm on time, you know," she huffed as they relocated to the kitchen. "There was no reason to start without me."

"Harry's idea," Ron immediately declared.

"Ron said you wouldn't mind—" Harry began at the same time. The best mates regarded each other with offense.

Lunch comprised of newly ordered and leftover take out, a cultural combination Harry decided to name "Chinetaliendian…berg." Ron saw nothing wrong with the cuisine, and both boys were confused when Hermione merely shook her head in resignation.

Ron and Hermione provided most of the chatter, while Harry ate with a distant look in his eye. Whether he knew it or not, this was a common expression he wore just before he told them something important. They recognised immediately, and set about producing a neutral and welcoming setting for whatever subject that was troubling him.

"Speaking of the Ministry," Harry began during one of the many pauses Hermione and Ron were thoughtful enough to allow, "I've something to tell you."

"Yeah?" Ron said casually. Hermione appreciated that he did not mention the fact they were speaking of Neville's need for a girlfriend.

"So … " Harry began uneasily. He scratched his forehead absently, where his scar once sat. Ron eyed the action with a puzzled frown, but said nothing. "Remember when you made me get an Auror application, Hermione?"

Hermione nodded as she rolled Lawrence's stroller back and forth beside her. "Actually, I made you get two."

"One for me?" Ron asked appreciatively.

"Well, yeah, that makes sense," Harry admitted, brow furrowing. "But I lost one so I had to use the second. In any case, I turned in the completed one a while ago."

"Well then what was I to complete?" Ron wanted to know, plainly annoyed. He was also plainly ignored.

"And," Harry continued, a hint of frustration seeping into his voice, "Remus spoke to me."

"Does Remus want to switch careers too?" Hermione asked, perplexed.

"Well, no." Harry skewered a sweet and sour shrimp with his fork and then wrapped it with alfredo. "I talked to Tonks first, because I hadn't received a response soon enough."

Ron spoke up around a samosa. "But it would take a while to process, right?"

"Well, yeah, but…" Harry blushed as he made a vague gesture that meant, embarrassingly, _I'm Harry Potter._

"And Tonks and I…disagreed a bit, over certain matters. So—listen to this now! She had the gall to ask Remus to speak to me, to 'explain things better'!"

"What's so wrong about that?"

"What's so wrong," Harry repeated in disgust, scowling at Ron. "What's so wrong? She didn't even have the decency to explain things better herself!"

"Well, she tried, didn't she?" Hermione pointed out sensibly. "And you didn't want to hear what she had to say."

Harry gaped. Hermione could not fathom why. For every major conspiracy theory Harry computed, she and Ron usually rebutted with a logical explanation. Surely, he must have predicted their disagreement this time.

"She was completely out of line! Remus isn't even an Auror!"

"Neither are you." Ron munched happily on a mixture of foods Hermione could not identify any more. "So she's not required to abide by protocol when dealing with non coworkers, is she?"

Harry's argument was in the form of a dark frown.

"Did Remus manage to explain things better?" Hermione wanted to know.

Harry snorted. "No. I mean, he said basically the same thing she said, only … only a bit more irritating." Which meant with more logic than Harry could swallow. "I mean," he said passionately, "do you two think I'm an fickle, unreliable, amoral person?"

Ron and Hermione affirmed their faith in his decisiveness, reliability, and existence of morals.

"They don't think so. At least, Tonks gave that impression. They said that my behaviour in the past two years didn't illustrate the proper character of an Auror."

"They turned you away?" Ron asked, gobsmacked. "They rejected _you_?"

Harry, while still sheltered by a storm cloud, was visibly pleased by Ron's shock. "Yeah."

"That's absurd."

"That's what I said."

"Harry," Hermione began patiently. "What did they say exactly?"

"Well … okay, fine. They didn't completely turn me out. Tonks said that maybe, after a year or two at Hogwarts, I'll be …" Harry shrugged. "I guess she meant that, if I can prove that I'm the type of person one can entrust one's life in while on dangerous missions, that I can start training in two years. Every one knows I haven't the academic requirements, so I've already got that against me. Frolicking all over the world and doing illegal things is, I guess, frowned upon by that lot."

"And is that what Remus told you?" Hermione prodded knowingly.

"Maybe," Harry sighed. "Figures he'd stand by her. But he needn't be so … wise about it. I swear," he all but growled, "that Remus is starting to twinkle his eyes when giving advice."

"Oy, he's got to stop that," Ron agreed. "That's irritating enough from one old man, but two—"

"Remus is only—" Hermione began, not entirely sure of the professor's age, when she was interrupted by her mobile.

Harry made a face, but Hermione could not tell if it was her decision to stay with the default ring tone or her surprised announcement that it was Poppy's number flashing across the screen that made him unhappy.

But instead of Poppy's frank, easy voice, a smaller one answered her greeting.

"Can you come over?"

Hermione stilled her hand on Lawrence's stroller. "Henri?"

"No, it's Julia." Hermione's grave expression gradually caused Ron and Harry to halt all conversation. "Aunt Hermione, please, please come here."

"Julia," she began, hoping her voice was both stern and comforting. "Is there something wrong? Where's your mother?"

Today was Saturday. Today was usually Poppy's happy day, as she spent it with her daughters, cleaning up the flat. Then again, perhaps that was the reason Poppy called it her unhappy day as well.

"She's—she's … please, come. Just, please, come here."

Hermione's heart almost froze. The little girl sounded so terrified that her squeaking whisper conveyed more pain than the loudest of shouts. "Julia, are you all right? Why are you whispering? Are your sisters—"

"If you can't leave Larry," Julia cut in desperately, "then can you send Uncle Harry, please? We need …a grown up." She sounded confused at her choice of words, and, consequently, so was Hermione. Where in god's name was Poppy?

"I'll be right there, I promise. Just …" Hell, what sort of advice was one to give in this situation? "Stay safe."

Hermione ended the call and rose to unbuckle Lawrence in one swift movement, barely hearing the boys' queries. It wasn't until Lawrence cried out unhappily that Hermione realised the potential danger of bringing him. With a pleading, fearful look, Hermione implored Harry to watch Lawrence and wait for an explanation later. Harry, appearing frustrated and cornered, agreed on the condition that she was not going any where dangerous. She had Disapparated before answering, mostly because Hermione did not know the answer.

The scene that awaited Hermione was bizarre. The flat was clean. No, not just clean, Hermione corrected herself faintly as she walked through the eerily quiet kitchen. Spotless. Unlived.

When she cautiously neared the bedrooms, Hermione heard an odd combination of noises. Whimpers, sniffles, and shushes from behind the door to her right. Sobbing, swinging doors, and shoved furniture to her left. After some hesitation, Hermione slowly turned the knob, almost clenching her eyes as her horrible imagination offered disturbing scenarios.

The girls sat in the middle of the shockingly bare play room, their backs to the door, shoulders hunched. Hermione watched as they fiddled with something on the carpet, occasionally wiping their faces with their palms. Henri and Nadine were desolately pushing a few things back and forth to one another, while Julia stared blankly out the window, as if contemplating escape. She clenched the mobile in her tiny hand so tightly that her fingers were nearly white.

The mere sight of them broke her heart. It was with great difficulty that she spoke without shakiness. "Girls," she began gently, kneeling beside them. A book she read once said that it comforted children when an adult spoke at their level. "Where is your mother?"

The effect was immediate, and, Hermione thought, very typical of the three. But as they clung to her so tightly that Hermione nearly lost her balance, she noted one significant difference. They were afraid. Well and truly afraid.

"You can't let her," Nadine sobbed against her neck. "You can't let her do it."

Henri was attempting to hold back her tears, and only wrapped her arms around Hermione's waist very tightly. "We tried to say sorry, but she's angry. She's never been so angry she cried. She's never done that."

Julia said nothing. The little girl only rested her head on Hermione's shoulder and sighed.

That was the response that disturbed her the most. Never before had surrender sounded so soft.

She did not react normally, and pry the girls away. Instead she waited, patting Henri's back, smoothing Julia's hair, and squeezing Nadine's hand in the ways she had seen Poppy do, knowing that nothing could ever truly replace a mother's touch, but trying any way. Gradually, they left her, standing a little away, their eyes averted from the culprit on the floor.

Hermione eased into a sitting position, and lifted one object delicately.

_Mum (Poppy)_

_Flat on Second Floor_

_With the fixed red vase_

She dropped the envelope, and reached for another. All said the same thing. Dozens and dozens of empty envelopes, messily addressed and damp with some of Poppy's most expensive perfume. They watched silently as Hermione gave a touched smile when she flipped one over, and saw three, tiny lip stick painted kisses along the fold.

Hermione looked up, seeing the walls stripped of their crayon pictures. The toys normally scattered on the floor were gone, and the trunks meant for storage but used as forts were missing as well. The habitual laughter had not fled the home…it had been simply faded into hollow cries and constant tears.

"We never meant to lie to her," Julia said mournfully. The others looked down at the alarming pile, ashamed.

"We thought it was the truth," Henri added defensively. Her words had lost the expected spirit, yet nevertheless echoed forcefully in the empty room. The girls stilled, and turned towards the open doorway and across the hall, fearing the appearance of their mother.

The rummaging noises continued, and Hermione watched curiously as the three heaved tremendous sighs of relief in unison.

"We thought we could do it," Nadine further explained sadly. She crumpled to the ground, regarding the unused envelopes with regret. "But we can't, we can't! It's so much fun!" Nadine raised her large, shining eyes towards Hermione. "_You_ know."

The emphasis made all the messily strewn puzzle pieces fit with a resounding snap. Hermione's eyes flickered towards the envelopes, around the abandoned room, and resting, finally, at Poppy's chamber. She shook her head. Silly Poppy. She was wiser than that. Nobody could run away from magic.

"We'll come back," Henri continued frantically as Hermione stood, and slowly walked to the door. "Uncle Harry said there were holidays."

"And, while we're there, we would write," Nadine added. "See? We would write, we promised we would write."

The three followed her as Hermione strode uncertainly to Poppy's door. Julia had said nothing, and Hermione turned to her before entering.

No defense? No explanation? None. Julia simply met her eyes, and quietly requested to make mum stop crying, please.

Starkly contrasting the rest of the flat, Poppy's room was hurtled into chaos. Clothes, books, priceless gifts and worthless mementos covered every inch of open space. A stark, white light clawed its way through the open windows, forcing a vivid view onto the eyes. She had left nothing for the girls, and gathered every possession in her sanctuary, ready to see to their departure all by herself.

She had been stuffing fluffy, flowery dresses in one trunk when Hermione quietly entered. Before she could say a word, Poppy's red eyes had narrowed suspiciously. The woman looked ready to rise to her feet, but thought better of it, and continued packing the triplet's formal wear.

"We're leaving," she told her curtly.

"Yes," Hermione said neutrally. Hoping her words would not prove a catalyst, she added, "I would advise against it."

"And I," Poppy responded with growing intensity, now slamming the trunk shut and moving onto another, "would advise you to mind your own damn business. You've done enough trouble as it is."

Hermione looked at the crack in the door, and shooed the girls away. Gently, she shut it as Poppy muffled a sob behind a tight fist.

"Stop it!" she ordered, voice hitching. "You don't tell my daughters what to do. They're my daughters, mine."

"You can't be angry at me because they're magical," Hermione reasoned, drawing closer.

"They're half normal too," Poppy argued angrily. Hermione bristled at the implication of abnormality, but held her tongue. Her friend's hands shook as she folded and refolded glittery shirts. "And they've been normal all their lives. It was only until we met you that they started asking me questions I can't answer. That I could never answer. It was only after we met you that they started lying to me."

Hermione swallowed her own tears, for it was plain that nothing wounded more deeply than that. Poppy shook her head, bewildered by her own daughters.

"I was never the one to keep secrets from," Poppy continued vehemently. "Never. I—" Hermione waited anxiously as Poppy curled her lip disgustedly. "It doesn't matter any more. We're leaving. We'll move away, and forget all about you, and Harry, and Dumbledore, and—"

"And what?" Hermione asked sensibly. "Your own daughters? How can you forget what they are? How can you ignore it?"

"Because I love them!" Poppy thundered, rising unsteadily. Her hand fisted around a small, pink shirt, and held it tremulously to her breast. "I can ignore this part of them because I need to, if I want to keep them. I can't—I can't lose them, Hermione." She looked utterly devastated by the possibility, a woman with no reason for existing. "They're all I have."

"I've told you before," Hermione said, drawing closer, "going to the proper school is not abandoning you—"

"Why can't you see it?" Poppy implored through gritted teeth. "Why can't you understand? You're so fucking brilliant, and yet the simplest doesn't occur to you!"

"You're simply not seeing all the aspects—"

"Look around you!" Poppy roared. With a new deluge of tears, she choked on the words as she violently threw the clothes into the trunk. "Look how I live! I know it's not awful, but it can't possibly be better than your world! Do you honestly think they would come back happily? To their Muggle, single milk woman mother, and her sad little flat, full of broken things she can't fix, full of blood that they're ashamed of—"

"They would never!" Hermione argued immediately. "Have you no faith in them at all?"

"I do! I do!" Poppy wiped at her eyes as the sobs shook her body. "I taught them everything I've known. I've taught them to strive for the best, to take every opportunity. I just never thought…" She sank mindlessly onto the disorderly bed. "I never dreamed that the best life for them would be a life without me," she laughed sadly. "That's very selfish, I know. But I would rather be selfish, and live with them, than understanding, and not live at all."

Hermione watched her, unable to think of a thing to say. There was no guarantee that a separation would guarantee an unbroken flow of the mother-daughters relationship. They would mean to write, yes, but perhaps, after one particularly trying lesson, they would forget. And with a love like Poppy's, the woman's soul could not handle one single forgotten letter. It would break her.

"They'll hurt others," Hermione said apologetically. She did not want to use this tactic, but could think of no other. Poppy regarded her, unmoved as the weeping ebbed. "Or each other, if they don't learn how to control their magic."

Poppy winced, and shook her head emphatically. "No. No. They're not like him. They would never do that."

_Oh dear_, Hermione thought faintly as Poppy gripped self control, and continued to pack with greater care and ever greater determination. _You're supposed to be so fucking brilliant,_ she thought abrasively. And yet it never occurred to her from where Poppy might have acquired such a strong dislike from magic. It had never entered her mind that that horrible man might have mistakenly used sorcery against his wife.

"And I like you," Poppy continued in a strained voice, "and I adore Lawrence, but I can't continue here. This place…well, it's just no good. This is just…another bad chapter. Next place, it'll be better. Next place…it _must_ be better."

Hermione wondered if she had bullied them during their holiday, pressured them somehow into choosing a Muggle life. But even as Poppy wrapped one picture frame in a pair of jeans, Hermione doubted the plausible suspicion. No, those girls loved Poppy as much as she loved them; lying to please her, albeit for the moment, was not above their morals.

"Please leave," she requested firmly. Hermione blinked, snapping to attention as Poppy finished yet another trunk. She scanned the room, noting that there were six more trunks to go. "It's not the way I would have liked our friendship to end, but you've got to go. They'll get their hopes up, and I just can't deal with that at the moment."

She had to do something. Hermione understood Poppy's pain, and she understood the fear, but she also understood the confusion and resentment the triplets would soon feel. Poppy knew a great many things, but she did not know how to explain unexpected relocations, unintentional physical changes, and ill conceived jinxes. Poppy would not know how to heal magical injuries. Poppy did not know how to raise witches without some help, at least.

"You just can't take them and expect them to forget what they might have been," Hermione warned her. "It's not fair to them, to deny them their rightful heritage."

"They might not forget what I've done," Poppy returned tightly. "But they can forget you. If they don't see you any more, then—"

"Then what?" Hermione prompted, fuming. "Then maybe they won't see what a proper witch should be? Then maybe they'll forget why they feel so different at school? Then maybe they'll think surrendering a part of their life wasn't so important? What, Poppy, what? What do you hope to accomplish by being so selfish?"

"They need their family!" Poppy snarled, now standing and looking ready to push Hermione out the door. "What use are those pretty little tricks of yours if you've nobody to love? Magic may be the only thing that their father's given them, but it will never be able to give them what I do. I protect them, Hermione. I love them. And I won't let them go."

There was no reasoning with her. Hermione had used all logic, and Poppy hadn't budged an inch. Both disgusted and sympathetic, she turned on her heel and left, offering little else than a comforting smile to the frightened girls across the hall.

She wanted to help them, god knew she did. A part of her simply wanted to lay in defeat, for she knew that her fury would meet or surpass Poppy's if somebody commanded her to change Lawrence's lifestyle completely. Poppy was their mother, and it was her right to do with them whatever she wished. Hermione ironically recalled how often she used the same argument against Harry whenever he spoke ill of her—

"Harry," she breathed with a sudden stop before the door.

It was risky. Oh, who was she kidding? It was downright lunacy. If Poppy refused to hear reason from a good friend, then it was less than likely she would willingly listen to an annoying acquaintance.

As stupid as it was, Hermione reasoned as she dialed on her mobile, it would be stupider to let the girls run away.

"Should I bring Lawrence?" was all he asked.

Hermione thought of the violence in Poppy's eyes, and the inevitable screaming and swearing that was to ensue.

"No," she replied, "leave him with Ron. I just need you to talk to Poppy."

To his credit, Harry did not whine or protest. One moment she had requested his presence, and the next, he was standing in the living room. She guessed she shouldn't have been surprised to see his wand at the ready.

"For heaven's sake, put that away," she hissed, hoping that Poppy hadn't heard him arrive. Her doubt of calling for him increased when his hard emerald gaze passed over her, taking in the bare scene with nearly tangible suspicion.

He barely heard her, rudely brushing past her and to the bedrooms. "Where are they? Where's their stuff?" Harry paused before the open door, spotting the terrified triplets with an increasing frown. Hermione assumed the might have attempted to rush him as they had done to her, for he merely shot out one warning hand with a singularly terrifying scowl, effectively halting any potential clinging. "Where the bleedin' hell is your mum?"

Hermione hurried after him, hoping to explain the situation before Harry charged recklessly into the room, but it was too late. Before she reached his side, all heard the opposite wall swing open.

"Harry!"

"Poppy," Harry returned coldly. "Cleaning up?"

Hermione opened her mouth, not sure if she was going to apologise to Poppy or explain to Harry. Both looked ready to go for someone's throat, and Hermione liked the thought of surviving the day.

The Muggle crossed her arms, and stared up at him unflinchingly. "You could say that."

"That explains their cheery disposition, I suppose," Harry continued, stepping forward, positively menacing. Hermione had never actually seen Harry loom over anybody, much less a defenseless single mother.

But any intimidating affect was lost on her, for Poppy merely tilted her chin up and bit off, "Their disposition is none of your business. They're my children after all."

"You're out of order, Poppy," Harry warned in a low voice.

Hermione tensed, withdrawing her own wand in case somebody needed restraining. Poppy shook her head, setting her jaw stubbornly.

"Until you've grown up," Poppy informed him mercilessly, "you're in no position to say what's right and what's wrong."

Effortlessly, Poppy looked past the seething young man to the daughters standing a few feet behind him. Without ever gesturing one finger or saying one word, Poppy turned and walked back into the bedroom, assuming correctly that her daughters would follow.

Hermione had believed that was it. With a sinking, gnawing feeling, she thought it had been the end of the battle. Mired in defeat, she watched as Nadine, apologetic and timid, slowly pushed the door shut.

Harry stuck his foot in the door.

And, while a part of her murmured a petrified, _Oh no_, Hermione could not help but mentally sigh, _Thank god._

"We're not through," Harry informed the girls pleasantly, stepping into the room and waving them back to the play room. "Go play with Auntie Hermione. I'm going to talk to your mother."

From her angle, Hermione could not see Poppy's expression as Harry herded the bewildered girls to her side. Even without the visible proof of her fury, Hermione suggested a silencing charm before Harry shut the door firmly.

Although she had faith in both their judgments, Hermione muttered a quick prayer for Harry's sake as she led the three to the living room. There was no television, and anything that might have been remotely interesting had been shoved into Poppy's room. With an apologetic grin, she sat before the girls and held out her empty palms. It meant that only two girls could participate in the catch-the-fingers game, but Julia was not in the playful mood in any case.

She hoped it would not last very long. As Ron had showed her the other night, she was not very good at this game.

xoxox

Harry stood, tense and ready, as Poppy merely stared at him, apparently too livid to take action. After visibly calming herself, she asked him very quietly, "Well. What are you waiting for?"

"I'm not sure," Harry responded defiantly. "I don't know what sort of woman you are yet. The balls-kneeing kind, or the face slapping type."

Now Poppy did rush up to him, heedless of the crumpled clothes and broken antiques crunching under her swift feet. He twirled his wand idly with one hand, deceptively nonchalant until she stood only a few inches from him. When she spoke, it was slowly and with tenuous self control.

"I _never_ use violence."

Harry blinked down at her, absorbing her reaction thoughtfully.

There was nothing to say. There was never anything to say, Harry reflected, when Hermione was not present. Whenever they found each other alone, somebody's feelings got hurt. Or rather, somebody's ego became rather bruised.

He suspected that any and every feasible argument had been spouted by Hermione. And he also suspected that she had not summoned him to spout the infeasible arguments. And while it was quite easy—and, all right, sometimes enjoyable—to verbally spar with the woman, Harry had no idea what to do with her when she was near tears and hysterical.

"Would you like to go to a funeral with me?" he spoke frankly as Poppy dragged the sheets off her bed. Harry noticed that she hadn't bothered to pull the cases off the pillows, and decided heckling her husbandry skills was not the best tactic to calm this Muggle enemy.

Poppy nearly ignored him, but the strangeness of the question, apropos of nothing, made her mutter distractedly, "What?"

"A funeral," he continued uncomfortably. She had trouble folding the vast comforter by herself, so Harry picked his way through the clutter and grabbed hold of the opposite corners. "You know. Snacks. Drinks."

"A dead body," Poppy finished as they folded it lengthwise and then attempted to fold it towards one another. Seeing as she was determined to throw her cares to the magicless winds, Harry decided that she would not mind if he stepped onto her mattress with his shoes on.

"Well obviously," Harry retorted as Poppy, very rudely he noticed, grabbed the comforter corners from his fingers. "But I thought it would be redundant to mention."

"I'm sorry that I won't be able to help you through your heavy sorrow," Poppy rejoined tightly, "but I'll be busy for the next few weeks."

"Right," Harry agreed, wondering how he was able to be so amiable with the mad woman. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was her pitying state of insanity—which he always suspected, but never could prove until now—that fettered his usual animosity for her. "Relocating."

"Yes." Her tone was clipped as she stuffed the bed things into one trunk with great difficulty. Harry thought of a spell that might have helped her, and annoyingly pushed it away.

"Finding new employment."

"Possibly."

"Generally ruining your daughters' lives because you're too scared to deal with a change."

Nothing. No response whatsoever. Harry watched as she regarded two empty trunks and then the rest of the colossal mess with skepticism.

He sat on the bare mattress mutely, regarding her with irritation. It was uncomfortable, and idly he stood to withdraw his wand from his back pocket before sitting again.

Without preamble, Harry directed the wand towards her with indifferent menace.

"What are you doing?" she yelled, backing away so quickly her shoulder collided with the corner of her wardrobe.

"Threatening you. Magically," he elaborated when Poppy only gaped.

"You fucking—"

"I mean, that's what you suspect of my lot, isn't it?" he continued conversationally, gaze and wand never wavering. "That's what you expect. Force. Brutality. Laziness. You think that we're some sort of all powerful alien invasion, and that the only way to escape our heinous ways is evasion—"

"Don't tell me what to think!"

"Silly request," he agreed instantly. "Stupid of me. Thinking cannot possibly be on today's agenda—"

"What do you know?" she demanded in exasperation. "Better yet, why should I explain myself to you? Hermione, at least, has some emotional investment in us. But my daughters and I—we've been nothing but annoyances to you. So, if this is some sodding obligation to Hermione to try, that's it. You've done your best, and just let me raise my daughters the way I see fit."

Harry's mouth flattened into an unpleased line as Poppy tried to go about her business. Her eyes never wandered too far from his weapon, however, so he was not surprised when she threatened in a shakily, "And if you do not put that god damned…thing away, I will have Hermione in here in no less but two sec—"

"She can't hear you," he informed her. "Nobody outside these walls can." Had not she been attempting to crush the potential in her three daughters, Harry might have felt sorry for her as the colour drained from her face.

He didn't move as she rushed to the door, but only warned her that he was most likely going to follow her. Poppy's hand fell away from the knob.

And he understood. While the quandaries of female behaviour might forever mystify him, Harry understood the fierceness of protecting others. He knew, without the need of invading her mind, that she did not wish any magic—benign or no—to contact her daughters. He knew that she would rather remain trapped in a room where nobody could hear her cries for help than allow a questionable wizard, so eager to force his way, in the same room with her daughters. He knew that she would rather bear her friends and her daughters' resentment than be responsible for any harm.

"Were they ever hurt?" he asked sensibly as she turned to him. While her posture slumped with apparent resignation, her brown eyes were mutinous on him. Harry imagined he could almost feel the daggers they sent his way. "Your daughters," he clarified when she said nothing. "Did you ever let him hurt them?"

"Of course not," she snapped. "Never! What kind of mother do you think—"

"The good kind," he answered quickly, stepping around her and blocking the exit with crossed arms. "The kind I've always wanted." The response left her dumbstruck, and Harry continued, uncaring for her confusion. "And they don't even realise, do they? They're somewhat aware, yes, but otherwise, they were too young—wait, how old were they when you left him?"

Both were confused by her immediate answer, as both expected her to refuse the interrogation. "Three."

"There you have it. They were too young to know what sort of danger you shielded them from. They don't know what untrained magic can do, but you do. You remember."

His eyes flickered to the side of her neck, where the jumper collar hid a barely discernible scar. She angrily covered the already concealed mark with one hand, as if the mere acknowledgement of it shamed her.

"If …" she stuttered, disconcerted, "If this is some sort of flattery, to persuade me—"

"But what they don't remember," he plowed on, "they'll assume, when they're older. They'll understand how things are, and they'll remember what might have happened had you not been there. And, believe me, Poppy." He spoke with more force, and made a conscientious effort to lower it so that she would not mistake his advice for furious ordering. "They will be thankful. They will know. And they will never leave you."

Poppy searched his eyes, confusion and anger still twisting her features. Harry felt the faint hope of a job well done as he saw the conviction crumble from her stare; that is, until her bottom lip began to tremble. Then the satisfaction quickly converted into awkwardness.

Thankfully, there were no tears in her voice. "I assume that you speak from experience."

It wasn't about him, Harry wanted to snap. Simply because he happened upon her at her most vulnerable was no reason for him to shed some introspective light on his past. So, Harry shrugged noncommittally, thinking it was generous of him to do so.

"You know, I'm sentenced to a few years there," he continued gruffly, focusing on her hair line instead of her eyes. That lost look was not appropriate on Poppy, he decided, and he refused to focus on her face until she removed it. "So it's not as if I would let any harm come to them when they are ready to attend."

The words, however reluctantly promised, did not comfort her as much as he expected. He watched her shake her head tiredly, and wordlessly allowed her to sit on the bed without the threat of magic.

"If I do this," she told him wearily, "it almost feels like … like surrendering them to him. And, before you open your fat mouth about letting my pride ruin their chances, let me just say this. Whatever he was associated with, it was never good."

"And let me say this," Harry shot back, "whatever he used against you, it's not what we teach at Hogwarts. The bastard probably misused his tricks sporadically, unpredictably. I know it's bewildering when you don't know what it is, but—"

She laughed quietly, shaking her head once more. Her hair formed a curtain about her face as she stared down at her lap, letting the tears fall on her jeans.

"You have the wrong idea," she told him sadly.

"I think I know a little more about this than you do."

"No," she insisted, not bothering to meet the challenge in his words. "No, I mean it. You think that I was some scared 'Muggle' woman, in too deep before I could get out." Without warning, a sob wrenched from her throat, and Poppy pressed an oppressive hand to her mouth to swallow the tears.

Harry began to regret the silencing charm. He did not like to see her in anguish, but he did not know how to comfort her. She was not Hermione, after all, small and easily held until he soothed away the tears. She was … Poppy.

"But I _knew_," she continued brokenly, failing to quell the deluge of tears. "I knew there was _something_ about him. He would show me things before we were forced to marry, things that scared me and excited me and I thought—"

Poppy buried her face in her hands, weeping openly as Harry approached her cautiously. He desperately wished for a handkerchief, but could find nothing in his pockets.

"I thought the danger was exciting," she explained bitterly, accepting a clean t-shirt he handed her. She shook her head again, self-hatred plain on her face. "I thought the odd little things he made happen were attractive. And … when it started to hurt, I thought I could pretend they weren't real, I thought I could change him. Change him, Harry! As if he was some fucking project. As though reforming dangerous, selfish bastards is just a part of being in love.

"So you understand now? Do you understand why I can't—Harry, I just _can't_—let them get hurt by this. I _stayed_."

"So what?" Harry asked, expression hard. He couldn't truthfully say that he was pleased by this small revelation. For god's sake, why did everybody praise love to the high heavens when it made people do such stupid things? "The reason you're trying to force them to forget magic is you made the _unimaginable_ decision of staying with the presence of dangerous sorcery?"

She winced at his emphasis, which he expected. And he wasn't sorry for it. It was incomprehensible, totally beyond his reasoning, that anybody would willingly risk a child's life—let alone three—simply because one could not bear the heartache of separation. Then again, he was not a parent, and nor had he ever fallen as hard as this woman had fallen.

"I know I stayed," she argued, guilt thickly coating her words. But Poppy was never one for defeat, and it was not long before she snapped her eyes to meet his, something like acidic hate bubbling in the brown depths. "You don't have to remind me of my mistakes. I know that by not leaving, I—"

"But you did leave," Harry reminded her quietly. "And you didn't come back."

"So what? That's why they'll return to me? Because I barely avoided being a selfish coward?"

"Because you sacrificed for them," he told her impatiently, as though it were obvious. "Damn it woman. You've raised them, and you know how they are. Nadine, Julia, and Henrietta will never abandon you. They'll always be your daughters. They won't change."

"They won't change," she repeated with a wild, short laugh. "They're already changing!" Poppy gestured to the wall, seeing the secret envelopes in her mind's eye. "They have secrets from me. Suddenly, because of your fucking world, I'm the enemy—"

"You make yourself the enemy," he interrupted harshly. "They don't. It's people like you that make us—yes, us, and not just your daughters—keep our world a secret. If you weren't so bloody ignorant of the whole thing, maybe your daughters wouldn't have done whatever's started this mess. Maybe if you had tried to learn about it instead of assuming the worst, you wouldn't be crying now."

Harry bit back the next few words, knowing that he couldn't lay his hatred for the phobic Muggles on one, overprotective woman. She was not doing this out of prejudice—not entirely, any way. She was simply doing this because she cared. "And," he began, striving for a calmer tone. Harry was mildly disturbed to hear his voice dark and low. "Between you, me, and Hermione—they will never be unprotected."

Her convulsive crying had faded into a few shuddering sniffles, leaving her free to look up at him confusedly. "But you don't like us."

"No," he agreed. "But, with powers as strong as your girls', I'd rather be a friend than an enemy."

She gave a watery chuckle, and Harry thought it was rather wrong of her to enjoy the thought of harming him. Especially since he'd been so nice.

"They are pretty good, aren't they?" she said, pride seeping into her thick words. She wiped her face with the shirt and Harry rolled his eyes and nodded. "No training or anything, like you said."

"They're all right," he mumbled indifferently. He heaved a great sigh, wondering how long it would take to settle the matter. Harry had thought it was the end of it. In fact, they hadn't reached the end of this emotionally hurtling discussion, Harry was ready to leap out the window to put a stop to it. And so, because the divine powers absolutely adored him, Harry found himself perfectly unsurprised when Poppy spoke again.

"She can't be with him." Her tone was urgent, breathless, as if the thought had seized her and forcibly shaken her soul.

"What?"

"Hermione. She can't be with that Draco fellow."

For the millionth time, Harry did not know what to say. "Poppy…" He spoke uncertainly, not even sure if the moment was actually occurring. "Poppy, you just said something…and I agree with you."

She ignored his incredulity. "I _know_ that type, Harry. The bloke so handsome, and so—above you, that when he chooses you, it feels like a privilege. And not only is he handsome—"

"I honestly don't see what you women see in the ferret face," Harry sighed, the surprising turn of conversation sparking the levity in him.

"But he's also so emotionally fucked up that I—she thinks that by loving him she's doing him a favour. But she's not. She's only making it worse, by saying that it's okay to let him do this to her—"

Harry flexed, ready to interrupt, for it appeared that Porpington was going to have a nosebleed if he allowed her to work herself up. "I'm working on it, Poppy. All right?"

"What do you mean, working on it?"

"I mean that I'm not going to let her end up with the bastard. Hell, Poppy, you act like you're the only friend of Hermione who could think." He winced. "Don't say a thing woman, I know I just set myself up for an insult there." Poppy smiled at him, and Harry nearly smiled back, which frightened him a bit. Covering his grin with a cough, he changed the subject. "So, no running away, yeah?"

"Yeah," she agreed. She smiled slightly, and Harry was pleased to spy a small amount of sheepishness in the grin. Already, he knew that Poppy would never apologise for this overreaction.

"It was a crap idea any way," he snorted, removing the silencing charm from the room. "I would have found you."

"And I would have maimed you."

"You would _try_—"

"Shit," she sighed, getting to her feet as if she hadn't poured her heart to him, "Now I've got to clean all this up." Poppy squinted at him. "I don't suppose you have some sort of flicky gesture to do that for me?"

"Oh, I do," he assured her, and proceeded to do nothing at all. Grumbling, Poppy began unlocking the trunks.

"So are you going to the funeral with me or not?" he asked as he stood to leave.

"You still want me to go?"

"Yeah. It's a bring-a-Muggle sort of funeral."

"There are _sorts_ of funerals?" she asked when they heard somebody run to the door.

To Harry, however, he heard a nearly inaudible _pop_ just as little feet skidded to a stop.

"Should we knock?"

"It's an emergency!"

"Does that mean we should knock—"

Because he was closer, Harry quickly swung the door open, and looked down to find the triplets gibbering unintelligibly as they rushed inside. Before he could question them, he heard a similar pop again.

"Harry!" Just as the girls had, Hermione ran to the room, not even sparing Poppy a glance. She frantically shoved a piece of parchment in his hands. The penmanship was slightly familiar to him, but not enough to …

"It's Draco," she told him breathlessly, eyes full to the brim with tears. Harry stifled a frustrated sigh. Women. So damn emotional, and it was just a short letter about—

Harry's eyes widened as he scanned the short message.

"I went back there," she spoke, panic rising in the words. "And it's true—I looked, and it's true. Ron and Lawrence; they're gone!"

xoxox

**If wishing damns us, you and I**

**Are damned to all our heart's content;**

"**An Argument" by Thomas Moore**


	23. Weak and resentful I have been

**Hello all…or shall I say, all who had not given up hope on TPP. I hereby dedicate this chapter to Snowe, and all those who helped in that unfortunate incident. Gumshoe rocks my socks, and is complete awesomeness. I'm the antithesis of awesomeness, I'm well aware, so let those chastising reviews flood in. I don't mind being told I'm crap for my bad timing. **

**Lemonade: **Heehee, glad you liked it. If there was ever a doubt that Draco could not play sports, that new move proved everybody wrong. :)

**Elaina: **How strange that you had heard that, for I had no idea that the disgusting incident had been going around the grapevine. Huh.

Selling it or not, there is no excuse for what she did. I honestly don't give a damn that she wasn't making a profit off of my work, the work I slave over, or not. In a way, she was advertising falsely, for the stupid, childish, and greedy desire for reviews. For REVIEWS, for god's sake! How pathetic do you have to be to actually steal somebody else's hard work just so you can have a bit of an ego boost? She could have gotten a puppy if she wanted unquestioning love and adoration. She didn't have to hurt me and insult my intelligence just so that her hits statistics could go up.

The fact that she wasn't selling it (and I can't fathom how she'd do that, any way) doesn't make me feel better. It just makes me feel worse, for then she didn't have the justification of needing funds. She just did it for avarice.

And you're right, Elaina, this is just for fun, but I guess people have different definitions of "fun." I write because I love finding the perfect phrase, the perfect description, the perfect word to achieve the intended effect. That is what I find fun, even if it takes me years to get a paragraph right. Others take fanfic lightly, and maybe they should…but still, when something is clearly the product of years of hard work and meticulous planning, then it really isn't right to steal it. Steal bits of fluff, if one must steal, and improve it. It was a shame that she took my work, and simply made it worse.

But thanks for the review!

**Legionnaire with a Frigidaire: **Holy crap you're hilarious! If that isn't your email, you should seriously consider getting that account before somebody else snags it. And I'm all for hypocrisy, in certain cases, so woohoo!

I love laughing to the point of near-self-wetting! I love bushisms! I love it when I nearly pluck things from the mouth of JKR (though I doubt she would appreciate the theft.)

And, god, do I love Percy. I know exactly what you're talking about, when it comes to missteps and pride. Maybe that's why I sympathize with him as well. I just know that he regrets what he's done, but he feels there's no way to turn back and fix it.

Wow…never thought TPP would ever make readers think of the bible. Still, I'm glad Ron's reaction evoked such an image from you. And you're right, that's what I had been attempting to convey when I wrote that part, a "physical locking-up."

The Lawrence lines were surprisingly fun to write. I thought they'd be difficult, as I have a "what the hell can babies do to make them interesting?" attitude, so I didn't know how to make him have a role while being completely helpless. But you're right, they're difficult creatures. You try and try to make them stop crying, and then suddenly they're enthralled by an amusing crack in the wall. Honestly. Adorable, but weird.

Hey, tell your coworker that girls do not have cooties. Boys have cooties, and they're lucky girls are mature enough to overlook this flaw.

And what kind of fathers would Harry and Ron be for their daughters? In my book, yes, they'd be the rifle-polishing dads, only because they know heart breaker boys (aka Weasleys) and they know that they don't want their daughters around guys like that.

Why are ferrets illegal in your state? I find that really weird and a bit unfair for the ferrets.

"Fuckably" Yeah, Poppy and her weird words. I blame her for any confusion when it comes to that definition.

(wow, I thought I was done, and then I scroll up and find your second review!)

"my sainted aunt" reminds me greatly of Katherine Hepburn.

To be quite honest, I tend to start my stories with a specific intent in mind, and, half way through, I lose sight of it. So, perhaps, I did start out with the goal of showing fangirls that, no matter how dashing Draco Malfoy is, he does not deserve the attention he gets, but…at this moment, I don't know what will be learned by the end of TPP. Maybe I'll find my way to that goal again. Maybe I'll fail completely. I don't know, but I know that I'll try my hardest.

And, just so you know, I understand and agree with your tangents.

**Nessa: **Erm, yes, cliff hanger was rather evil, especially when considers that I wrote it after a terribly long hiatus. My apologies. In any case, I've updated! So, um, thank you for your dedication in reading the whole thing in three weeks and I hope you enjoy it!

**Waffles: **I've always suspected that I'm evil, but your review confirms it. Yes, the cliff hanger and the wait are both really bad things, and I didn't even have the decency to redeem myself with a speedy update. Forgive me, Waffles! It's been a hectic life! In any case, you find out what's on that note this chapter! Thanks for the review!

**Christinaaaaaa: **Gee, I hope I got all those a's in your name. Any way, yes, I like Hermione with Ron too. But there are moments, I'll admit, when I like how she is with Draco. In the end, however, it's not important whom she chooses, but rather if she's happy with the way her life turned out. Thanks for your review!

**Unspeakable May: **Oh criminey, don't go and praising me to the high heavens like that, or I'll die of blushing. 'Tis possible, I swear.

And, aw! That bit where you said how I write the characters realistically? Made my night! I'm glad you noticed the issues I write about, because, in the end, when you strip away everything in the Harry Potter world, that's what it all boils down to, isn't it? I've tried to emulate JKR in that sense, and I'm glad I've achieved it somewhat.

And don't worry about grammar mistakes. You've expressed yourself very well. I mean, English is my first language and I still make loads of errors, so I shouldn't reprimand you at all!

You're right, by the way, how other fanfic writers don't give Ron the credit he deserves. I hope JKR gives him more to do, though, in the last book.

I know you asked me to update before another six months had passed, but look on the bright side! At least it's not seven! Thanks for your review!

**Insipidparagon: **God, this is weird. I could just talk to you on lj, but, whatever, I'm all about reader-response-traditions. So yeah, onto the response.

Yes. Poppy. Wow. I never know what to do with her, and yet she stumbles into plot-importance all the same. And when I wrote Harry's role into the scene, I did it recklessly, because that's how I imagined he would handle it. Not caring half as much as Hermione does about Poppy's feelings, just wanting to get the job done. So yes, it is a bit of a miracle he did not mess it up entirely.

"But oh noes!11one! Larry and Draco and Ron, oh my! Are we going to have to wait another six months to find out what's happened there!"

OH MY GOD, you're a bloody Seer! LOL

I applaud your continuation of Percy-love. I shall continue with my Percy-love. We shall continue together.

And yes! Charlie was giving Hermione a break, and the silly witch didn't notice that at all! Honestly! Ungrateful thing! But still, I'm glad you noticed it, observant reader you. (P.S. Have I told you, how much I love it when readers point out specific things they love? It's awesome.)

"Loved loved loved the detail of Ron and Hermione's capture-the-fingers game. A game, I think, which is universally played, and made me smile both from picturing it and remembering playing it myself."

It's weird, because I only ever played it with my grandmother. And we didn't like each other very much. Huh.

**Sunny June 46: **Gee, I'm sorry if this is random, but I can't help but wonder at your name. At first, I thought it was a WWII reference, but then I remembered that '46 has nothing to do with '39-45…

But any way, yes, I've been a deplorable stranger. I'm Adelaide E, by the way, in case you've forgotten during the last six months. It's getting horrible, my progress. I hate to be resurrected with such large gaps of time in between, but I can't help it!

Chapter 22: I completely love Ron in this story as well. He's just so…gah, he's my angsty teddy bear I want to comfort for eternity. And, concerning the parallels between Poppy's ex and Draco…well, it was a bit coincidental. I hadn't even noticed the similarities until a few chapters back. All in all, I'm glad that it worked out that way. Otherwise, Poppy's past was just so useless to the plot.

Technically, this did not take "millions" of months, but six months can sometimes feel that way, so I'd understand if you fail to recognize me again!

The Painted Past

Chapter 23: Weak and resentful I have been

**It's true I've dabbled at times with confident lines  
I was half of a man nearly half of the time**

xoxox

Contrary to popular belief, Draco Malfoy had, in fact, been fond of his parents.

They weren't so terrible, really. So they didn't embrace him or smile at him as often as the average idiot family. _That's because_, Draco reflected, _they were above the mundane conventions of society._ They had their own ways to show their approval, ways that were not so vulgar as grandly emotional facial contortions, or embarrassingly frank words. No, no, the Malfoys were as subtle as they were pure, and so when people pitied him for being "unloved," he pitied them back for being ignorant.

But there was something more valuable than their nearly nonexistent traces of affection. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had connections. Connections which, if they died at an appropriate time, would have transferred to Draco seamlessly. Damn. Draco hated it when the world failed to align to his plans.

Which happened far too often. Malfoy was beginning to suspect he was going about Life the wrong way.

Take, for instance, _this_ moment. Just a few seconds ago, Weasley had stalked past his compartment as if the heavens didn't shine out of his arse. For god's sake, his mates didn't agree with the idea of Dead Ron, and so here he was. All Draco ever wanted was power and glory, and fate didn't have the decency to give him one ally.

Currently, he was sitting in an apparently vacant compartment on the Hogwarts Express. His departure from the disgustingly sappy scene hadn't been intended as empty bravado, but, as the distance between him and his not so great nemesis grew, Draco realised that he had no set destination in mind. There was nothing quite so quelling to arrogance as ignorance. With a heavy heart, Draco snuck aboard the train—which was a difficult feat considering he was trying to keep the broom concealed beneath the cloak—and attempted to sort out his life.

He had no idea what had just occurred back there, and nor did he really want to contemplate the fact that the trio's happy life suddenly became insufferably happier. They really were a bunch of greedy rotters.

Judging by the weasel's sullen face just now, Draco guessed that Granger might have told him about the red haired baby. A baby that could not be his. There was silver lining to this crap cloud after all.

With a brighter smile, Draco shifted his mind to more relevant matters. He could not stay in the City; that was certain. Not with the Ministry scrambling to look less idiotic by promising his recapture. Draco smiled proudly as he stood. Technically, it would be something like re-recapture…

The train slowed to a stop. With only a vague idea of the area, Draco left the locomotive via open window and ridiculous good luck. Open window because the magnificent threesome just happened to be situated by the nearest exit. And good luck because he managed to pull up the Firebolt before he could slam into a massive brick wall.

If only he had his wand. He would have shown that wall who should have moved out of the way. But no. Prewett probably had the thing snapped in two by now, in a shadow box above the fire place.

He was mad. And Malfoy didn't mind madness in the administration; really, he wasn't prejudiced to that sort. He just hoped that, if there _was_ an unsound person in charge, that person would look favourably upon escaped convicts. Draco was not oblivious to the irony of this hope. He simply chose to ignore it.

Draco flew for what seemed to be an eternity. When he finally descended, after soaring in a direction that least disturbed the invisibility nuisance, Draco had very little idea as to where he was. With a hope of concealing whatever parts of him were left uncovered by the extremely overrated cloak, he had descended in a forest. He had seen a few villages nearby, and easily wove through the dense trees in the general direction of one of the smaller ones. Whether this was bright or stupid was irrelevant. The point was, he was tired and hungry, and—although some claimed it was his second nature—very cold. Magical or not, the rag that Harry treasured so much did very little for body temperature.

As the trees gradually thinned, Draco realised that there was very little hope of traveling with a broom without drawing attention. For perhaps the first time in his life, Malfoy wanted to fit in. He wanted to be mistaken for one of these common wizards, one who couldn't trace his untainted heritage for ten generations. He almost paused when a horrifying idea occurred to him. What if there weren't any magical populations at all here? That would mean...

"Shit," Draco muttered. With a dark expression, he stopped the Firebolt and left it leaning on one fallen log to continue the journey out of the woods on foot. If there weren't any wizards at all in the area, then wandless magic was definitely out of the question. As he approached one village, Malfoy gradually decided that it was very clever of him to choose a purely Muggle population—if his disgusted observations were correct—for the Aurors would never believe he would sink so low. Indeed, Draco himself had trouble swallowing the idea of living like them.

It was well past sunset by the time Draco found a large mounted map in a cobblestone town square. _Brilliant_, he thought caustically, forgetting his earlier sense of self congratulation. He had landed in a nest of tourist traps, dozens of small villages of menial historical value, surrounding Canterbury. Perhaps he might have realised this fact if he had deigned to see the surrounding tour buses and wandering lost people, but Draco had been too busy concentrating on location and his hunger. His stomach growled so loudly sometimes that others, failing to see him beneath the cloak, would ask their companions if they were _that_ hungry.

"We've got to get back to Ickham now," he heard an elderly woman say loudly across the square. Draco looked up, and saw other women of the same age take their seats in a large double-decker bus.

_Ickham?_ He thought, moving even before he processed his actions. His mind swam swiftly through his memories, trying to pinpoint when he had heard of the place before.

_Ickham_, Granger had told him fondly. _I'm from Ickham. But you knew that, didn't you?_

Yes, Malfoy remembered. He knew that because he had made it his priority to learn everything he could about the enemy's weaknesses—before the career change, of course. It wasn't as if he actually contemplated visiting Granger's village for some martial gain. That would have been a task for a lesser person.

_That must have been it_, Draco decided. Irony of ironies. He had learned about it while deciding how to render her useless to Potter. Now he was going there because she was the only useful person to him.

"I hate irony," Draco muttered sullenly as he stood in the aisle of the tour bus. All around him, women who wore ostentatiously tacky t-shirts chattered loudly. The woman who sat on his right looked across the aisle, straight through him, and asked the wig-sporting harpy on his left, "What?" And, thus, Malfoy was reasonably entertained by their argument until they reached their destination.

It didn't surprise him that he knew the street name and number. It didn't surprise him that he knew the lay out of the roads. When the occasion called for it, Draco could remember any detail necessary for self advancement. He prided himself on recalling any little story to land somebody else in trouble.

But what not only surprised him, but also positively shocked him, was the fact that he knew the street. Not only the name, but the appearance of it. There had been no need to note escape plans or even admire the traditional architecture. He had already seen it.

Under normal circumstances, unexpectedly already knowing something might have pleased him. Not knowing something tended to annoy him. So, not knowing why he already knew where Hermione's hidden key was bothered him greatly.

He stumbled over the hedges in the back garden, and laid still for a moment when the neighbor's window opened slightly. He rolled his eyes as the decrepit pair quarreled as to whether the male should investigate, and boldly stood up to enter the Granger home.

Again, the familiarity of his surroundings astounded him. Only it hadn't looked quite this dusty in his mind's eye. This pitifully cramped abode had not appeared in blues and greys in his mind, with shadows covering whatever the aged dust could not. For some reason—the same unknown reason that had been plaguing him recently—he expected it to be…open. Sunny. Warm.

"Why?" he demanded heatedly, staring at a wall of pictures he had seen before. "Why, damn it all, why?"

The house was silent, and yet Draco could hear the memory of voices, too distant and mangled for his understanding. It was only when slight pain registered through the thick haze of confusion did he realise that he hand been clenching his fists so tightly that a nail actually penetrated the skin. He hadn't known that he had been breathing deeply, that he had been grinding his teeth, or that he had been absolutely furious for no specific reason at all.

Draco shook his head, and mechanically moved to sit on a sheet covered sofa. "Oh my god," he muttered, amused and cynical. "I'm going mad. Mad, just like—" He cut himself off. He refused to even think about that now.

It had to be hunger. That was it. Hunger drove men to madness, it was well known. In fact, Draco had seen that sort of torture first hand. The lack of food was the only reason he felt as if his world was both falling to pieces and closing in on him.

Resolve strengthening, Draco narrowed his eyes and walked confidently to the kitchen. How and why his feet knew the path was unimportant. He just needed some nourishment, and then he would sort out the mess.

The cupboard was empty, and full of cobwebs. Of course, sensible Hermione would not let food go to waste in an empty house.

He paused as he turned away. "Hermione?"

Yes, Hermione. Not simply Granger any more. She had encouraged that, hadn't she? It wasn't as if…as if it felt natural or anything, thinking of her that way…

In the frigo—much shorter and older than Potter's—he found a baby bottle and a small container of baby food. Draco blinked in puzzlement, but did not hesitate to reach for the liquefied nourishment. Why would Hermione return with the child? _Perhaps to acquaint him with his grandparents' origins_, Draco decided as he wrenched the jar open, surprised to find the smell of fruit wafting from it. He observed the label to discern the flavour, and was slightly disappointed to see it past the expiration date. His stomach contradicted his high standards, and so Malfoy decided to view it like a wine—better with age.

Now that the body had been satisfied, Draco was more at ease to learn more about his surroundings. An inky blackness hid the walls, but he knew what they looked like, vaguely.

There was no use denying it now. After he had finished his pitiful meal, Draco climbed up the stairs with his tired eyes closed, for he was confident of his footing. Moving almost mechanically, he shuffled exhaustedly to the only room he could bear to rest in. Why Hermione Granger's room held so much comfort was a mystery best left undiscovered.

He was, in short, fed up with the crap life had dealt him. Draco was not concerned with his numerous predicaments, for his present existence proved that he was very talented when it came to solving his problems. He just felt that it was somebody else's turn to deal with dilemmas and misfortune. Take the trio, for instance. Everything just made way for the weasel, Draco observed scornfully, while the truly deserving were constantly plagued with the worst.

He sighed as he settled on the bed, not bothering to slide in between the sheets. There was something disturbingly intimate about an act such as that. Granted, he and Hermione Granger might have become friends, but Draco could not remember the development of such a relationship. And until he could sort out why he could not remember in the first place, Malfoy refused to worsen matters by recalling any more memories.

xoxox

_She was an all right kisser. For a Mudblood. For a virgin._

_Draco had put all his power in that kiss. What his lips had done to hers would have made any normal girl swoon._

_She sighed a bit, and the tension in her body melted somewhat. But that meant nothing. Granger did the same when reading a spectacularly boring book. He wanted to know, damn it, wanted to see if his slag—well, his ex-slag now—had said any truth when maligning his reputation as a kisser._

_Bloody stubborn witch. Granger didn't have the decency to buckle at the knees. She did know whom she was kissing, right?_

_At last, she made a noise, which he took to be a positive sign. It was a beautiful day, they stood by a pristine lake, and she was in Draco Malfoy's arms. If Hermione Granger didn't emit at least one whimper, she wasn't human._

_She even forgot to open her eyes when he broke the kiss, which made him smirk in satisfaction._

_Draco shook her, demanding an answer, despite the fact that he was very sure of the verdict. Most likely, she'd be embarrassed to have enjoyed it, and she'd summon some half arsed indignation, if only to—_

"_You know what Malfoy? I detested you before but…"_

_The review was polite, positive, and annoyingly false. Her mouth—now very red and slightly swollen—looked the way it ought, but her eyes lied to him. They flitted to the lake, to the sky, to the school—which was where she wanted to be. Back to the sheltered arms of that imbecile, whom she hated not five minutes before._

"…_You kiss very well."_

_It wasn't worth it, to argue with her. It wasn't as if her opinion mattered all that much any way. After all, her experience was limited to one awkward Weasley; it was like asking a Muggle about broom models. There was simply no point. Useless. Futile. Utter waste of time._

_And yet his eyes could not leave her form as she skipped back into the castle._

xoxox

Draco's eyes flew wide open the moment slumber left him. He never understood the trouble others had with awakening after a full night's rest. Now, it was an entirely different matter when it came to recovering after a full night's activity…

Inexplicably, the lewd thought led to Hermione. Or rather, it was not so inexplicable. Draco sat up, bewildered for but an instant, in Granger's bed, in her room, and in her home. The very air was permeated with her. So it was not so surprising that she invaded his dreams.

_Oh come off it, Draco_, he thought with a snort as he stood and stretched. He knew very well it was not simply a dream.

At night, these memories hit him mercilessly, capturing then swallowing his mind with no transition whatsoever. One moment, he laid in bed, dully waiting for sleep to come. And in the very next instant, he found his mind's eye staring down at Hermione Granger, sometimes smiling, sometimes scowling, but always aching for her.

At first, they had been brief, barely memories at all. The feathered edges of a scene, too quick and too bright to be mistaken for genuine. The freezing flash of a sound, one that he knew he heard before, but could not tell if it was in the realms of slumber. A paralysing fragrance wafting from his own mind to the present, inviting him back to a past he could not grasp with two hands.

xoxox

_Draco's eyes perused the list of casualties. It was shorter than he expected, which was very disappointing. A two front attack, and that was all his father could manage? Egad, it was worse than Germany._

_Gallagher, Geller, Godfrey, Gunter…_

_Draco blinked. He reread the list, and then sat back in puzzlement. There were two sources for his confusion._

_One; why hadn't his father had dispatched of Granger before being sent to hell? Lucius Malfoy despised her especially, considering all her accomplishments contradicted every theory Death Eaters formed about bloodlines._

_And B; why wasn't he more disappointed?_

_Most likely the desire to kill her himself, he concluded after a day of irritation. It wasn't as if he appreciated her earlier charity of sparing his feelings. There were more important things to remember._

_Hermione Granger was a dangerous enemy._

_Hermione Granger was a Mudblood._

_Hermione Granger slapped him during their third year and she never properly apologised for it._

_So, no, he was not sorry that she had survived the first battle. There were apologies to be delivered, tears to be shed, and curiosities to be satisfied before the sympathetic slag had to die. _

xoxox

_How_, he wondered as he attempted to quell his hunger with Malfoy-ish disapproval of food. How had he sunk so low as to have fancied her, at one point?

Mum had gone mad.

Was her sort of madness hereditary? Or had it been borne out of circumstance? Who would know? Who would have both the knowledge of wizard blood and the effects of war? Besides all that, who could he trust enough to ask—

Well, besides Hermione Granger.

_Fuck Hermione Granger_, he thought darkly. If he had been a person of lesser discipline, there would be a snide inner voice acidly reminding him that all evidence suggested that he had sincerely wished to do so. But, thankfully, the Malfoy had eliminated that sort of self doubting rubbish years ago.

He would not have touched her. Admired her from afar? Maybe after a few drinks. Admit that she was more than a creature of dirt? Perhaps after a few drinks and hours of torment. But to take action on the weakness? Impossible.

"Who."

Draco did not jump at the hoot of the owl, but merely turned to the window to face the curious creature. They had been absent in London. How he had hated cowering within the walls of Number Twelve, shying from the windows like some hermit. But that was necessary; Prewett, at this point, would be thirsting for his blood. At least here, he was surrounded by Muggles, and no Muggle's opinion ever mattered. Mudbloods, on the other hand, were an entirely different matter.

"Who-who."

_Granger_, Draco answered silently. _Bloody Granger._

xoxox

_The owl was so inane, yet so matter of fact. They just wanted to know what would render Granger incapacitated, at least for a while._

_It showed just how desperate the Death Eaters were. That they were asking _him_, that _he_ was the best source for such intimate knowledge, proved how damaging their recent losses were. It was probably all her fault. Why couldn't she be as stupid as Potter and Weasley? Then Draco wouldn't have been burdened with such menial paperwork like this._

_With a roll of his eyes, he dipped his quill into the ink and began a brief but effective reply._

The answer is so bloody obvious I shudder to think who proposed asking me. Yes, Granger is marginally clever and somewhat brave, but she is marginally clever and somewhat brave for a reason. For her loved ones. I realise that Potter is somewhat difficult to kill—

_Here, Draco paused, and shook his head. After all those attempts, he was surprised that Voldemort hadn't hung himself out of embarrassment._

But surely the less important lemmings are easier to do in. Get Longbottom, at least. Even if he is only barely effective as a soldier or Granger's motivation, it's just maddening to share the same planet with that monkey.

_Malfoy had no worries about the cheeky tone of his message. Chances were somebody'd read it, summarise it, and send the summary to somebody else to read and summarise, until a pleasant, succinct lie reached the evil one's ears. At this point, he no longer cared about constant diplomacy and flattery. At this point, Draco expected to be ruling the world. Or at least, England._

_He was rather tired of fighting, really. He just wanted to win. _

_There was no official celebration when Granger's parents were killed, for that implied that the Mudblood was actually important. But the Death Eaters walked with particularly smug expressions that week, and minions were saying rubbish about a nearing victory. _

_And Draco felt good. He did not think of Granger, or her feelings, or how sweet it had been for her to spare his during that strange first kiss. Chances were they never thought about him, or how he felt when he learned that dad had died, and so he swallowed the small drop of guilt and smiled. Victory was not soon, oh no, he was not stupid enough to believe his own propaganda. But, perhaps, victory was more certain. And that was always a good thing, no matter who was hurt._

xoxox

"Who are you exactly?"

Draco had stepped outside, into the back garden, for barely a moment before a disgusting turtle of a man popped up from behind the hedges. Technically, as Draco was not on his property, there was no real reason to answer him. But after he had taken in the wizened details of his face, Malfoy noticed something else. The hedges, presumably sitting directly upon the property line, were perfectly trimmed—but only on the neighbor's half. Meaning that this Muggle took particular care to know precisely where the boundary was and made sure not to trim a single twig that was not his. Such a creature simply had to be inspected and mocked.

"Are you interrogating me?" he demanded, swaggering more than a famished man ought to. "As if I was a criminal? Who are you, is the question?"

A bit theatrical, true. But this was an inconsequential person, and, to Draco's light headed logic, he would cause no trouble.

The man, drawing himself to his greatest height, and thereby reaching Draco's shoulder, introduced himself with a gaudily long name. He mumbled slightly, and Draco wasn't one to pay attention to one such as him, and so the name was lost from his mind as soon as it was uttered. The Muggle once more asked him who he was and why he was there.

"I'll have you know, Mr.…Smith," Draco fumbled slightly, "I'm Drac…."

Malfoy had not forgotten his own name. The hesitation was due to the belated realisation that fugitives often assumed aliases when on the run, and Draco was determined to stick to convention.

"My name's not Smith," the man harrumphed. "I never said it was."

"What? Oh," Draco shrugged, as he struggled to produce an interesting false identity. It was a difficult task, as he had always thought his own name to be rather perfect. "Close enough."

The man, whose name was Yates, was inclined to disagree, but refused to pursue the subject any further. "And you've yet to give your full name."

"Passage." Draco's endeavor of imagination had been a failed one, and therefore chose a location of one of the Malfoy floating properties.

"What?"

"Drake Passage," Draco muttered, deep in thought. Good lord, now that he thought about it…where the hell had his father left that island?

The man, obviously not well educated in the world beyond his fences, accepted the name and asked Malfoy about his presence at the lately empty Granger home.

"I'm Hermione's friend," he supplied coolly. His grey eyes wandered over the man's sparsely covered head, and Malfoy focused his gaze on the kitchen beyond it. It looked like a depressing little hell hole, but that hell hole probably provided more than the Granger abode. "She said I could stay here."

If not for his desperation for nourishment, Draco would have treated this Muggle as he treated disrespectful servants; with a slap to his wrist and then certain death.

"What do you do?" the Muggle wanted to know suspiciously.

"Currently unemployed." It wasn't so much that Draco felt obligated to give the elderly man the entire truth. It was simply that the old man wasn't worth the effort it took to lie.

"Ha! A wastrel then?"

The man said "wastrel" like a sane person would say "sex fiend." And, really, Draco did not find either occupation completely horrible.

"I was engaged in the war a year ago. It sort of made desk jobs rather bland."

The beady eyes were unmoved, and only flickered up and down Draco's thin frame with the briefest glint of approval. "Fighting with the soldiers, eh?"

"I was not commanding unicorns, in any case," Draco said with a roll of his eyes. And, even if he had been given command of the stupid creatures, Malfoy would have refused. They were snotty little animals, and were vastly overrated. Much like Veelas, werewolves, and bespectacled wizards.

"If you're a friend, then why didn't I see you at the funeral?"

"Surely any upstanding Englishman would understand that a few personal sacrifices must be made for the greater security of the nation?"

The man had no answer for that, which made the growl of Malfoy's stomach even more audible in the quiet morning air.

"The house is in shambles," Draco said with a sniff. It was not much of an explanation, for, clearly, Drake Passage was not one to explain himself to anybody. But it was just the sort of meaningless complaint the displeased wealthy were fond of dropping. "I'm here to personally oversee the caretaking of it."

"I thought Hermione's solicitor had taken care of the details."

Draco made a mental point to never retire, if it made one as nosy as this little vermin.

"Not adequately, as anybody with eyes can see."

Draco knew this type—hell, his family was this type, except they had been better looking and more blessed.

But the life mantra was easy to discern: Anything different was bad. Anything to elevate his station was good.

"This solicitor of hers, you know, was absolute rubbish." He spoke with an air of confidentiality, just enough to make this Muggle feel falsely special. "Foreign, you know."

The creases eased into a mask of understand. "Ah, yes. I understand."

The conversation turned even more absurd, full of casual prejudice and insinuated influence. Draco did not know him, and nor did he wish to, but he gathered enough. He knew this man's ignorance what Hermione had sought to avoid for anybody's future.

He had always thought her bothersome. Like an annoyingly durable fundamentalist of The Church of Harry Potter. She wasn't content to leave well enough alone, couldn't imagine letting people be their flawed selves. Draco used to say it was because she was secretly unhappy with her sugary sweet life. But no, looking back…he supposed not.

For nobody on his side was "happily" evil. Nobody was "satisfied" with their constant struggle for power. Contentment was never the goal, not in the quest for more. So, perhaps, Granger had the vague right of it. What one had was—possibly, in some rare instances—greater than what one _could_ have.

Due to oblique references to important characters and his own charmingly menacing air, Draco was invited for a decent English breakfast. And that took care of that.

The wife was unexceptional, with a name and a face Draco dismissed as soon as he encountered both. She was unhappy as well, that was certain, but immovably so. As if this sad pair, with nothing to hold onto but their misery, would rather grasp onto that than drift along in the unknown.

Yes, Draco decided as he waited for somebody or other to clear his plate and offer him seconds, there was comfort in the certainty of hurt.

It had pained him to switch sides, but he knew where that pain would lead. Just as he knew that it would pain him to break bread with Muggles. One had to survive by any means necessary, after all. Otherwise, what was the point in existing?

xoxox

_They had sent him to question a little loathsome Spaniard, who was fourteen years old at the most, and a former student of France. Stubborn little thing refused to speak a word of English, Spanish, French, and then a horrible combination squeaking out in a puberty-plagued voice. _Late bloomer_, Draco thought, mentally punning "late."_

"_I know you speak English," Draco told him, bored, and slightly disgusted. He understood that dungeons were traditionally dank and dirty, but surely following the cliché didn't help with efficiency? How was a man supposed to properly interrogate when he was checking for toxic mould? _

_But the gibberish kept coming, now with tears, and Malfoy sighed before forcing the veritaserum potion down the boy's gagging throat. Draco didn't understand why the captive cried even harder after that. Considering how long he'd gone without food, a little truth potion was surely a good thing._

"_Now. Do you speak English?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Probably not very well," Draco said to himself. "Beauxbatons was a poor excuse of a school. Thank god it was the one of the first to go."_

_His words must have reminded the little bugger of better days, for an ungainly sob fell from his mouth, interrupting Malfoy's thoughts._

"_Stop crying, really! What the hell will that accomplish? I mean, you'll only annoy me and make me want to kill you with as much pain as possible!" _

_It was not comforting and, surprisingly, worsened the sobbing._

_But even the veritaserum had proved useless, for he managed to answer truthfully with very little help at all, until Draco was finally forced to deal with him physically. The Death Eater was not his father's son; he detested the mess of blood as much as Narcissa. But the boy's visions were the best in the modern world, occurring quite regularly and with stunning accuracy._

"_Will we win?"_

_That was not why they had captured him. Draco had specific questions, a whole bloody list of them, but he did not care. All the fighting, all the planning, all the failed attempts… he just wanted to know if it was worth it. If not, he would stop right now._

_The boy smiled, a ghastly expression on such a gaunt face. "You have to ask? That is a bad sign, no?"_

"_Answer the question."_

"_You did not get me for that. You did not get me if you did not know that."_

"_Am I on the losing side? Will those good tossers actually win?"_

_Draco was furious at this possibility. All his genius for a bloody defeat? That was unacceptable._

"_We will see," was all the fool said._

_He did not have very much patience to begin with. Just one smirk from the adolescent sent him reaching for the instruments._

_In the end, the boy had lost an eye but managed to preserve the little wanker's life. Draco had even returned him into a cell with a female prisoner, so that there would be somebody to tend to his wounds. After he had deposited the helpful child in the dank, silent walls, he began his plans of transfer._

xoxox

"Do you know what this is?"

The Muggle handed him a yellowed, aged parchment, handling it with utmost care. Draco didn't think that the man viewed his wife with as much affection. Draco didn't blame him; he'd have preferred ancient porn to that woman as well.

It wasn't antique smut, however, but an old advert.

"Propaganda?" Draco said, unimpressed. He tossed the folded paper back to him, and was regarded with a disgusted look.

"A call to arms, my boy, a call to arms. You see, Europe was being pestered by this annoying little shit called Hitler—"

"Eugenics."

"What?"

"Eugenics. That was that Muggle's aim, wasn't it?" The old man frowned at the unknown term, but Draco felt no need to explain himself. "He was just trying to improve the world."

"And trying to take over bloody Europe while he was at it!" Hermione's neighbor said indignantly. He unfolded the paper and observed the picture and bold letters admiringly. "Couldn't do it, though. Could not do it! He was short you know, barely a man. I don't abide by short men."

"Pity you're shrinking then," Draco muttered under his breath as he observed the small library. Granger's texts had been full of annoying things, like ethics, happy endings, and clean teeth. This Muggle's selection was somewhat better. Dozens of things on war, but, annoyingly, only Muggle wars.

"Short men," the ancient one continued, "are useless leaders."

Draco paused in his search for decent literature and thought about it. Voldemort wasn't short, but there wasn't much to him, really. And Potter was a good five inches shorter than himself.

"I completely agree."

"It's not in their genes to lead."

"Yes," Draco said, selecting one book and tucking it under his arm. Strength, brutality, fearlessness. Everything a Gryffindor needed to follow the stupidest of causes, or challenge the vilest of villains.

xoxox

_Sometimes the poor sports would put something in his drink, leaving him vomiting for a good portion of the night. They would leave mildly threatening notes on his bed, roughly push past him in a perfectly empty hall way, and generally displayed an unfriendly attitude. He was not bothered by this, for if a "good" wizard had switched to Voldemort's camp, the turncoat in question would have been subjected to a series of tormenting "interviews" to test his mettle. _

"_Who could blame you, really?"_

_Draco did not answer Remus Lupin. He had a funny feeling that the former professor wasn't choking him to gain information._

"_There's always been this nonsense about loyalty to the Dark Lord, but to stay for certain doom would be a betrayal in itself, wouldn't it? You've got emulate the bastard's love of ambition."_

_Draco tried to speak, but all that left his mouth was a horrific, dry wheeze. Uselessly, his hands clawed at Lupin's iron grasp, and his grey eyes begged for air. Completely disregarding an honourable gentleman's code of conduct, the hairy bastard refused to let him breathe._

"_Now, I know the others have warned you about your loyalty. And I know that Harry has already warned you about this fan mail."_

_Even as the lines of the man's livid expression began to blur, Draco summoned enough strength to roll his eyes. He hoped he conveyed enough dismay with that action. It wasn't his bloody fault that some optimistic purebloods thought his decampment was another ruse. And where did they get off, any way, reading his letters—_

_Lupin, as if sensing his growing indignity, tightened his hold and dragged him farther up the wall. Now Draco kicked, feet frantically searching for the ground._

No_, he thought as he fought for air. _No_, he panicked as his lungs burned. _No, no, no, no…

"_But whatever they've threatened you with," Remus said quietly, with all the sincerity a broken man could offer, "it's nothing compared to the life I now lead. You wouldn't want that, would you?"_

_He wouldn't dare. He was too moral. He, and Dumbledore, detested such tactics used by the "bad" wolves. _

_But as life and Draco began to drift apart, Malfoy could only shake his head, shaken and slowly losing consciousness. Later, after the older man had left him slumped against the wall, flailing at life, he realised that the threat Lupin had delivered couldn't have possibly been real. Hell, even the professor himself looked shaken by the memory of his heated words a few days later. But, considering how the war had turned the good to bad and the bad to worse, it was not terribly absurd to believe the horrific, false threat, just a little bit. _

Granger wouldn't allow it_, he thought, finding comfort in the girl's rigid morality, before passing out._

_It was simply a bad night for a walk in the woods._

_He awoke to an ungentle nudge to his stomach. _

"_My god, are you dead?" Granger's voice was oddly flat, as if she wouldn't be too dismayed to find his corpse. _

"_Not yet. Your friend Lupin almost murdered this valuable source of information, I'll have you know." His voice was hoarse, and it was difficult to focus on her big head against the blinding backdrop of the cloudy day. Draco could not even calculate the hour._

"_In all likelihood, you deserved it." Then she smirked, and backed away slightly. "I suggest that you go to Madame Pomfrey. There are some ghastly marks on your neck."_

_Draco struggled to sit upright, and watched in amazement as she began to walk back to the entrance. "You're just going to leave me here?"_

"_Yes, Malfoy. I already did you a favour by waking you up before it rained."_

_That was, sadly, the nicest anybody had been to him since he arrived at Hogwarts. The fact alone kept him from sending a petty hex at her retreating back. And he didn't take her indifference personally, for the girl had been constantly cold to everybody since Weasley's death. _

_So he sat with her at dinner, after Potter and the youngest Weasley had gone off to row about something or other. And she didn't turn him away._

_Anybody that desperate would have developed a small friendship. Really._

xoxox

"This house," he shouted to the apathetic walls, "is complete crap!"

It was, it really, _really_ was. So small he could barely breathe, so boring he could barely keep awake, so…so…Muggle! Really, it was as if the Death Eaters did the Granger parents a bloody favour by removing them from this branch of hell.

He was going mad. Draco smirked at the thought. All the years the trio attempted to thwart him, and all Granger had to do was bring him home. What did one do, any way, in Ickham? Even if he had magic, there were no wizards to duel with, and the Muggles were too unimportant to merit torture.

How did Granger manage to become a brilliant witch in such a stifling place? He wondered. Necessity, he supposed. She just adapted to the unimaginable circumstances life had placed her in, and became what she was. Highly improbable, but it happened.

_If she could do it, then I can._ It was a childish ambition, but Draco found comfort in it. His grey eyes scanned the living room in desperation. He thought of the rooms, unopened boxes, and the forgotten mementos. There had to be something to focus on for the time being. All one needed was one thing, one idea or object to make life bearable, and survival was guaranteed.

After a nap. He was feeling a bit light headed. Maybe that was why Muggles had such vacant looks on their stupid faces all the time. They were attempting to escape their own mundane realities.

Perhaps, Draco thought, as he fell against Hermione's pillow, sleep would bring him back to better times.

xoxox

_She merely tolerated his presence. Sometimes his orders amused her, and so she tolerated those too. _

_His "Fetch me that map" became chilly "Please fetch me that map." When she claimed to be too busy—which was a very good argument considering there was a war going on—the frosty requests became coaxing pleas, which also amused Granger, with even less success._

_Hermione once said, "I've seen your silver tongue in action before, but I've never thought you'd use the skill for me."_

_He contemplated making a lewd joke, but decided she wasn't worth the innuendo. _

_At first, it was a way to pass the time, speaking with her for non-military purposes. Then it became interesting, heaven forbid, when she actually outmaneuvered him in some debates. And, one day, when she was out with the others, and Draco found himself quite alone, he realised that he enjoyed her company._

_He dealt with the epiphany as well as he could have. Draco became a tad cantankerous._

"_One of your Ravenclaw friends failed to return my book, Granger." _

"_That's because she died last night." She hadn't even looked up to answer him._

"_Oh don't lie to protect the little snot, Granger. I would have known if there was an attack."_

"_She committed suicide, you heartless, cruel boy, and I'll get your fucking book." There was savagery in her very eyes, and her tone held knives for him._

_Hermione had left the hall way in a heartbeat, and returned with an impossibly angrier expression. She threw the book at him and set it aflame without bothering to wait for him to get out of the way. From this rash behaviour, he concluded that the book thief had been a good friend, and showed his apology by handing her his handkerchief. _

_Draco was uncomfortable, as he stood before her crouching, sobbing form. "Do you want me to hold you or something?" he asked defensively._

"_No," she hiccoughed, wiping away the endless river of tears. "You never have before, and there's no reason to start now. I'd have gone to the others if I wanted comfort."_

_It should have hurt, the way she said it and the choice of words, but it didn't. Draco decided that she just implied uniqueness, just then, by saying that he could offer something that the others couldn't. Besides a monogrammed handkerchief, at least._

_With a bitter, gnarled expression, she looked up at him. Those brown eyes, always sharp and understanding, were churning with hate. Draco was somewhat of a connoisseur when it came to hateful glares, and so he knew that her obvious loathing as not directed at him. Not directly, at least. She hated him, herself, and the whole bloody cause. At this point, so did he._

"_What would you say," she challenged with a watery but taut voice, "if I said that Harry's being an overzealous arse?"_

"_I'd say cheers to that," Draco responded promptly._

"_What would you say if I said Dumbledore is acting like a blind optimist, focusing so much on the enemy because he assumes we aren't hurting here?"_

"_Considering I don't care who is hurting here or there, I'm indifferent to Dumbledore's vision."_

_She shook her head, expression crumpling. "But isn't it awful of me?" Granger whispered, horrified. "Isn't it terrible, to doubt McGonagall? To question Harry? To want to smack my own headmaster? Nobility's well and good to look back on, but being noble is useless _now,_ when we want to just die to escape the pain."_

_His mind latched onto that "we," and he could not help but feel a mad urge to lure her away from that suicidal path of thinking._

"_It's not awful to be realistic," Draco explained flatly. "And if we never questioned our heroes or authority figures, then Lockhart'd be in charge of this place by now."_

"_Or Umbridge," Hermione pointed out spitefully. Malfoy supposed she'd never let go of that grudge._

"_Yes, or Umbridge. Besides, Dumbledore's constantly looking at the world with red and gold glasses—somebody has to knock them off once in a while."_

"_I like red and gold," Hermione sniffled to herself._

"_And Potter—yes, well, you know how I feel about him. The point is, hate the whole bloody thing. Of course you should, because if you begin to enjoy it, there's something wrong with you."_

_For her sort at least. She wasn't the type to enjoy the beauty of war, the brilliant intricacies of strategy and battle. If she had been raised in a proper family, perhaps she could have appreciated the way the deadly chess match played out. But then again, she wouldn't have been Hermione Granger._

_He kind of preferred her this way; sincere, bitter, and breathing. A pure blooded Granger would have died by now._

"_But don't hate it so much that you'd contemplate what that Ravenclaw girl did," Malfoy said in disgust. "We can't afford to have you that weak, Granger. People depend on you." With a shake of his head, for he thought her a little bit smarter than that, Draco began to walk away, intending to get a little bit drunk before bed._

"_But I don't ask for people to depend on me. I don't want to deal with that. Don't you think that she depended on me, on us, to make it all better? I can't promise so much to the younger ones, and not know if it's true—"_

"_Oh god, let's not mimic Harry Potter tonight, okay?" he said over his shoulder. "He spouts enough 'The world's a bloody burden' wank for all of us. Deal with it, Granger. Be the little heroine that you know you are, and just fucking deal."_

_And that was his good night. She was in a better mood the next morning, sat with him at breakfast and everything, and he liked to think he caused the emotional lift._

xoxox

"Forty seven, forty eight, forty nine…"

Fifty. Fifty teeth related items in Hermione Granger's room. Pillows, books, a strangely shaped pencil holder…

"God," he laughed, remembering a small prank from their fourth year. That must have devastated her.

Why were they so bloody obsessed with teeth? He wondered, wandering to Granger's vanity. Curiously, he bent and smiled briefly at the mirror. They were all right, he guessed. Perhaps they hadn't always been, but magic took care of that. Magic took care of everything. That was why _this_ life absolutely confounded him.

But he guessed it wasn't teeth, exactly. Her parents were probably like her. Logically, they strove to understand a subject of their choosing to their fullest extent. For the Grangers, it was the mouth. For Hermione, it had been magic.

For some reason, he tried to imagine how she had taken the news of her parents' death. She had probably been reading at the time, and somebody close—Potter, if the hero wasn't terribly busy—would come and say that something had happened. There was an accident. They couldn't save them.

And she was a sharp girl. Full of sense and logic. Everybody knew that she was brave enough to deal with grief and loss.

But, in total contrast to all that, Hermione had so much hope. She fought futile battles for those who did not want to be liberated. She believed redemption on those who did not want to be changed. She was so brilliantly blind.

Did she scramble for texts on the dark arts? When the others had gone to sleep, did she sneak into her beloved library for a way to bring them back? Hermione was tenacious when it came to her loved ones. She would have not let her parents go so easily.

It wasn't his fault. He didn't say the spell, he hadn't pointed the wand. They could not blame him, even if they ever did find out who had signed permission. Malfoy wished somebody would explain that concept to Prewett.

Draco felt a twinge in his temple, and sincerely hoped it was a simple migraine. Migraines were so much more enjoyable than what the small pains usually foretold. Hoping to beat the onset before it began, he undressed and fell to sleep.

xoxox

_Their friendship proved so enjoyable that Draco began to lament her status as a Mudblood, for she really was a decent girl. He knew by this point that blood played a very small role in terms of one's personality and talent, but Malfoy could not simply forget it. How unfortunate that somebody with Hermione's talent and quick mind was cursed with such a face and family. He almost wished he could help her, some how. Now that he knew the outcome of all their efforts, he knew that her tainted blood would not encounter any more discrimination in the post-war wizarding world. Still…surely there would be some wizards and witches who felt the way he did, and mentally belittle her for her unimpressive genealogy. _

_He mentioned it a few times. Not in the belligerent way of the old days, but cautiously. She was his only ally, after all, excluding the naïve young ones who believed he had "found redemption." He did not want to lose her._

"_Why do you suppose random Muggles are born as wizards and witches?" he asked after she had interrupted a potential brawl between him and that irritating Irish Gryffindor. _

"_Seamus is only half," she said as she searched for a spare inkwell in the class room._

"_Who?"_

_Hermione sighed and shook her head. Draco settled on the professor's desk, legs swinging casually. "I mean, it's strange, isn't it? It's as if there's no science to the laws of magic at all."_

"_There's a science to everything, Draco."_

"_Well, then, explain it to me."_

"_We just haven't had the research—or the social acceptance," she added with a pointed glance to him, "to study the why's and how's of magical inheritance. But surely there's a reason."_

"_Like an ancient, long forgotten pure blooded ancestor, maybe?" Draco had asked hopefully. _

"_I was thinking more along the lines of fate, actually."_

"_Fate is what the hopeless people call the events caused by their own lack of intellect. Oh no, I lost all my savings—It's fate. Oh no, my wife left me—fate. That's crap, Hermione. Fate is just an excuse to be lazy, and let life happen to you."_

"_Or, it's what brought you here."_

"_I brought myself here, idiot."_

"_Truly? Think of all the events, Draco, which led you to this exact moment. Now count how many were actually in your control. This mission, that circumstance…the timing of your escape from the Lair of Evil."_

"_Once and for all, Hermione, nobody called it the Lair of anything. Besides, even when circumstances are perfect, somebody waiting for a sign of fate would let it pass by. Instincts are key."_

"_I'm not saying they're not."_

"_Then what are you saying?" he asked in exasperation. He had become so distracted by this path of the conversation that he had forgotten his original purpose._

"_I'm saying that some wizards and witches are born to purely Muggle families because their contribution to the world would be improved by such a gift."_

_He scoffed. "Everybody's contribution to the world would be improved by magic."_

"_But then it wouldn't be called 'magic' now, would it?" she asked sensibly, with just a hint of friendly condescension. "Not if everybody did it. Then it would be just as common as speaking, and your lot would have to find another trait to claim as 'superior'."_

"_We don't find—that is, I wasn't speaking of magic, per se. Just…the blood."_

"_The blood is clearly irrelevant, Draco. It's the ability that matters." She had checked underneath every desk and behind every furniture piece, and, by this time, had given up. Hermione stood and studied him intently. "Wouldn't you agree?"_

_He affected an indifferent shrug. "I was simply wondering how it all came to be, Hermione. I care very little for your family tree." It wasn't a lie, technically._

_She smiled sheepishly as he stood and stretched. "I hadn't meant to include myself in the conversation."_

"_Well, it's your natural vanity that does that," he explained with a small smile. "I'm sorry to say it, but we're all rather sick of your ego. Thinking of chucking you into the lake, really."_

"_Thank you. Anybody should take advice about vanity and ego from you very seriously."_

"_Shut it, Granger."_

xoxox

Draco awoke to the sound of his own laughter.

Bewildered, he sat up and shook himself. He almost hadn't recognised the sound of his own chuckle.

Amazing. Dream-Hermione had made him laugh.

Dream-Hermione had been rather remarkable, Draco concluded in quiet disconcertment as he brushed his teeth, preparing to go to the Muggles' for breakfast. He glanced at the clock and sighed to himself. They didn't approve of brunch, but as they had nothing better to do in retirement, chances were they'd eat with him.

Dream-Hermione had kissed him without being impressed. Dream-Hermione had befriended him, sort of. Dream-Hermione outdebated him, complained of everybody Draco had already disliked, and made him laugh.

Dream-Hermione was a little bit fantastic.

The best part, Draco mused to himself as the wife grumbled about late risers, was that it wasn't "Dream-Hermione." If everything was true, then Draco reckoned he found himself a pretty reliable ally. Amusing too. It was as if she wasn't a virgin Mudblood at all.

"Chess game, Drake?" the Muggle suggested as he finished his eggs.

"Sure, I've five seconds to spare," Draco replied distractedly. The man took it as a good natured jibe instead of sincere arrogance, and clapped Malfoy's back with a wheezy, terrible laugh. Draco, so pleased with the information his memories had revealed, barely shuddered with revulsion at the contact.

The Muggle must have strategized the night before, for Draco found himself checked before demolishing the white king. Muggle chess was dissatisfying, Draco observed, but the defeated expression on the old man's face almost made up for the lack of violence.

"Two out of three?"

"Actually, I've got to get back to the house."

"Ah, yes, the repairs. What, exactly, are you improving? Haven't heard any reconstruction noise."

"Two out of three it is then."

Around their tenth game, Draco had a case of the sniffles.

"Are you getting ill?" His tone held more suspicion than concern, and Draco could not blame him. At that age, the Muggle should have been paranoid of raindrops.

"Guess so."

"Go home."

"All right."

Even before Draco reached the Granger's door, a small pain flared in his mind. It was so sharp and quick that he was left confused, wondering if it had occurred at all. Quickly darting into the house, he searched for his handkerchief. It was the poor heating, most likely, that caused this cold. Draco had been reduced to "borrowing" the Muggles' firewood, and one could not maintain a fire constantly.

The handkerchief was on Hermione's desk, and he dabbed at his nose absently as he wondered what pills to ask for when it came to headaches. They were old, her neighbors, and probably had every medicine known to man.

He froze when he spied maroon spots on the white handkerchief. Blood.

_Well, that's a new symptom_, he thought gloomily as pain slowly enveloped his mind once more. The comfort of Dream-Hermione's wonderfulness was once again overshadowed by the pain of remembering.

xoxox

_Their second kiss had startled him beyond words. _

_It was August when he received his first unthreatening letter of the year. It was sunny when he recognised the handwriting and smiled with uncharacteristic joy. And it was warm when he quickly set his features into an apathetic expression, and quickly left his breakfast to find a private room to read the missive from Narcissa Malfoy._

_Publicly, she had denounced him. But he hadn't taken it personally. Death Eaters denounced a multitude of things on a daily basis. For example, the Dark Lord was offended by a Bulgarian count, so the skull faced lemmings ignored the entire country until said Count managed to kill that Thomas boy. Hell, they all denounced Voldemort himself at one point or another. So Draco was not surprised to receive a note from his overbearing mum. He was only a little shocked she hadn't sent the sweet cakes that made him sick but her happy._

_The smile died, however. She didn't even address him by his pet name, which he loathed but always tolerated from her. It was simply a brief missive, telling him that his access to the Malfoy account had been cut off, and that their home's defense system would no longer allow him on the grounds. He had been cut out of the will, and anything in his possession rightfully belonging to the true Malfoys should be sent immediately._

"_That ungrateful whore," he said, with an almost detached amusement, as he read his mother's dainty cursive words once more. Inside, he was seething. Draco had done her a favour by telling her to decamp. He had left all his friends, let them remain on the hopeless case, but he had told her, for her safety. And what did empty headed Narcissa do? Turn on her own son._

"_No sense of loyalty," he laughed quietly to himself as he folded the parchment. Oddly enough, he had to clear his throat, for there was an unseemly lump growing in there. Chewing his bottom lip, he frowned and opened it once more, searching the lines for a hint of double meaning. Perhaps it was a ruse. She did not have a head for business; how would she know how to cut people out of wills or change the access of bank accounts? Perhaps it was a cover—_

_The door opened without warning, and Potter strode in. Malfoy threw him a cursory glance before folding the letter and sliding it into his pocket. Saint Potter was looking particularly stormy today and Draco did not want to give him a reason to cheer up._

"_I understand you received a letter from a known Voldemort supporter today, Malfoy."_

_By this time, Draco had grown accustomed to others watching his every move, and was therefore unsurprised by the speed at which the damaging rumours spread. "I am glad to hear you can understand the simplest of facts, Potter."_

"_May I see it, please?"_

_Malfoy smiled slightly at the "please," knowing that this course of action had been discussed with Hermione, and that she had suggested a more polite tactic._

"_It's private," he explained with a pitying smile. "I know you're not used to receiving any sort of acknowledgment from family, but—"_

"_Thank you, Malfoy," Potter interrupted coldly, turning away from him. "I've been searching for a reason to drown you in a pool of your own blood, and this treasonous behaviour is like an early Christmas for me."_

"_Treasonous?" the former Death Eater echoed with a mocking laugh. Despite his careless tone, however, Draco quickly stood and followed him out into the corridor. "How is a letter from one's mother a crime?"_

"_Haven't you heard?" Harry asked in a cutting tone, not even stopping to hear his explanation. "Being a Malfoy is a crime against humanity. Outsiders of the race tend to be rather jealously violent."_

"_Look, if you'll just read this," he began impatiently, shoving the hated paper into Harry's shoulder, knocking the shorter boy against the wall, "you'll see that defecting—"_

"_Again."_

"_Defecting again is not an option for me," Draco finished furiously. "And, unlike some, I'm not willing to flaunt proof of my martyrdom. I'd like to keep this as private as possible—"_

"_Martyrs have to die to be really appreciated," Potter said maliciously._

"_Then I can't wait to appreciate you," Draco shot back with a savage smile. "Read the letter."_

_Instead of complying, Harry roughly shoved the proffered message away. "Your questionable return was conditional. You were to supply vital information of the enemy—"_

"_Which I've done, you stupid little shit—"_

"_And cut all ties with your former allies."_

"_She's not a bloody ally, she's my mother. Oh, I'm sorry; I forgot whom I was speaking to. A 'mother' is—"_

"_Yes, that's right," Potter encouraged with a dangerous laugh, "goad me, provoke me. Aren't you afraid that I'll snap, Malfoy? Aren't you afraid that I could take care of you right now, in this empty corridor, and claim self defense?"_

_Malfoy opened his mouth to goad, to provoke, to put himself in an enjoyably dangerous situation—anything to forget his mother's frigid words—when somebody spoke for him._

"_Harry, what are you doing?" By the tone of her voice, it was clear that Hermione knew exactly what her best mate was doing. Her brown eyes focused on Harry's hand, which was reaching for his wand in his back pocket. "What did the note say?"_

"_I didn't—" Harry faltered, hating to admit his mistake in front of the criminal in question. Instead, he said in a hard tone, "It's from Narcissa."_

"_Yes," she replied impatiently, "but what did it say?"_

"_Potter was letting me experience the post-war judiciary system—execute now, investigate later," Draco explained coolly, handing Hermione the note without looking at her. For some reason, it was less dismaying to let her read it instead of the bespectacled buffoon. With tension still thick in the air, he strode away, fists clenched in his pockets as he envisioned what could have happened. The altercation might have escalated, curses might have been thrown, and this new empty feeling in his chest might have gone away forever._

_The plan had been to make sure that Narcissa remained safe from both Death Eaters and good wizards, and then arrange a life of retirement for her after the war ended. Draco did not care which side she chose to pretend loyalty to, as long as the charade shielded her throughout the war. He wasn't a terrible son, after all. He knew he had a duty to his mother. It was the same duty she ought to have had for him._

_When Hermione found him again, Draco was in no mood to deal with anybody at all, friend or no. His state of mind had been worsened when he discovered the bottle of whisky under his bed had been stolen— presumably confiscated by that sanctimonious bugger who wouldn't die. Hermione had taken a cautious step in, only to duck when something large had been thrown her way._

"_Oh Draco, really!" she exclaimed as she picked up and then dusted off her pillow. "It'll get dirty."_

"_So am I to be shipped off then?" he asked, slightly ashamed to have thrown a mere cushion at her. Surely he had done it because of a lack of options, and not because of some subconscious wish to see her unharmed._

"_Shipped off," she repeated, puzzled. "What for?"_

"_For the letter, Hermione, for the bloody letter. Is there another reason I should worry about?"_

"_You? Worry?" she laughed quietly, sitting beside him on the neatly made bed. "I can't imagine it."_

_They sat in silence for a long moment, she not knowing what to say and he not giving a damn. Once or twice, Hermione cleared her throat, but any hint of conversation was brutally cut off by Draco's stubborn silence._

"_Maybe…maybe you should take a walk."_

"_Taking a walk never clears my head, Hermione. It just makes my legs tired."_

"_Well…either way, I think—" She bit her lip, clearly at a loss for words. In one breath, she said, "You really should just get out."_

"_Why?"_

_What was it with these people? They never let well enough alone. Draco almost pitied Harry Potter, truth be told, for if anybody had any right to be miserable, it was that stupid sod. But because Potter was surrounded by people like Granger, he was never allowed to rot in his unhappiness. No—there were always suggestions of walks, and forced conversations, and maybe even a few group hugs to steal one's rightful pain._

"_Because I'd like to change for bed, and I don't fancy the idea of you stealing a peek," she replied with resigned embarrassment. _

"_Well, that's the most bungled proposal for a shag I've ever heard…of…" Malfoy trailed off, for the first time noticing the particulars of his surroundings. The tidy bed, the piles of books…a small arrangement of rags in the corner. Well. That explained the ugly cat he had kicked out of the chamber._

"_This is your room," he observed quietly._

"_Yes," Hermione agreed._

"_I went to your room."_

_He watched her through narrowed eyes, as if blaming her for his mistake. Because he appeared so expectant, she felt obliged to say comfortingly, "Apparently."_

_A suspicious question seemed ready to spew from his lips, but Draco visibly restrained himself. With a shrug, he stood, opened the door to leave, before turning around with a determined expression._

"_There was no—no subconscious seeking on my part," he said warningly._

"_I don't recall making any insinuation of the sort," Granger replied calmly._

"_It was a mistake. All these bloody rooms look the same."_

"_All right, Draco."_

_He was determined to leave on a confident note, and yet nothing came to mind that would improve his foolish appearance. Hermione, soul of generosity that she was, made the belated decision to help him._

"_It is lucky, however, that you just happened to come to my room…and sit for all these hours…" she added under her breath with a raised eyebrow, "because I've a problem."_

"_Yes, but you were born that way, and nothing can be done," he replied unsympathetically, but closed the door nonetheless and leaned against it to hear her out._

_Kindly, she ignored his jibe. "Suppose I had a friend, who is so used to repressing his feelings that the pent up pressure is beginning to increase the size of his head. How does one approach the conflict?"_

"_Oh, very well done, Granger," Malfoy snapped, opening the door once more. "If that's the sort of subtlety you use in combat, the entire effort is lost."_

_Her laugh followed him out the door. "Try to lessen your ego, for your spine's sake," she teased, with just the hint of bite in her words. "I was speaking of Harry. Is there something you'd like to tell me?"_

"_No."_

"_Good night then." With the click of the lock, Hermione Granger had the last word._

_He used to believe that he knew her type. The helper of the world, the global house elf to anybody in need. Normally, he would have been pleased to know that he was in a category all to himself. But not when that category had been deemed untouchable by Hermione Granger._

_It really shouldn't have mattered. In fact, he was a bit embarrassed that he wasted countless seconds thinking of it. But when a girl, so stupid and so generous that she was willing to care for the lowest house elf or beggar off the street, decided he wasn't the sort worth saving, it made a bloke feel…well, just awful._

_Despite their growing friendship, she still felt no need to comfort him. Good lord, was there some sort of requirement? A minimum of time and favours before she deemed him important enough for her attention? Shit, was he even worrying about such menial status?_

"_Yes."_

"_Yes what?"_

_Draco had answered himself just outside his bedroom door, and Hermione questioned his certainty a few feet behind it. He partially turned towards her, observing her with just his profile, watching as the sinking sun did little to illuminate her features. It had never been difficult to read her expressions before, but now, in the slinking darkness, it was impossible._

"_I don't know," he answered truthfully, too surprised to think of any other answer. Unused as he was to the sincere route, Draco decided to proceed along the unexplored path, and say what had been plaguing his mind. "Why don't you care for me?"_

_She blushed, the vain little brat. Even in the slowly approaching darkness, he spied her pink discomfort. Good Lord! He was just settling into the idea that she was his equal, despite her birth—it was absolutely absurd to think of romance entering the scenario. "Draco…well. Harry did mention this might—"_

"_I'm not talking about that," he cut her off impatiently. "You don't care for me. I could be in a suicidal mood right now, and you just let me walk out of the room as if you didn't care."_

"_Of course I care, Draco, but I was going to undress. Here, you forgot your wand—"_

_He snatched it out of her hand ungratefully. "Well, if you really cared, you would have done anything to stave off suicide," he shot back petulantly._

"_Strip?" she laughed, and those light chuckles only made his new aches sting even more. "You're not worth the sacrifice of my dignity."_

"_That seems to be the reigning theme of the day." He waited for some sort of comforting contradiction, and, when none was forthcoming, Draco decided he was tired of waiting. "Damn it, Hermione, why is so hard for you, with me, I mean. It's as if you were born to make other people's lives better, and yet what? Am I hopeless? Or not worth your time? What is it? What makes you laugh when I'm hurt? What makes you walk away when you should stay?"_

_How he wanted to look away as he demanded an answer, but that was cowardly. Hermione, however, shamed her house, and contemplated her next words while she gazed at a crumbling wall beyond him. _

"_I mean, you know, you must know that her letter hurt me. Surely you see that it rips at me."_

_But she wouldn't see, would she? Not when she was avoiding his gaze like that, not when she was moving her feet as if threatening to run away again. Draco softly stepped closer, wanting to shake her, and force her into action. _

"_I can't just forget her; I can't just erase her from my life. It was different with father, because it was beyond his control, but my mother, Hermione, the one who actually liked me a bit—"_

"_Stop it, Draco."_

"_And you sit there, and you let me boil. You sit there, and watch me hurt. I never cared before, because hurt was something I expected, and there had always been someone, something to strive for. But now—"_

_He didn't finish. They both knew what was different now. _

_Draco hated this. He despised every second of this moment, explaining what he felt and why he felt that way. It was so much less complicated before…before he changed priorities. On the other side of the war, there was a beautiful laziness in taking orders from the madman, and simply not thinking of the reason. _

"_You just want to know," Hermione said softly, with a striking note of understanding in her words, "if there's something worth surviving for."_

_Draco stared at her, and suddenly understood why she had kept her distance from him. He understood why she would go through the movements of being friends with the likes of Draco Malfoy, but never actually say the heartfelt words that made their relationship a true one. He knew why she never offered the comfort he so desperately needed._

"_You don't know," he realised, voice quiet with horror and amusement. "You don't know if there's something worth surviving for." Draco laughed before he could help it. The cynical chuckle made her wince, and yet he stepped closer eagerly. "Hermione Granger doesn't know."_

_Oh god. It was the saddest sentence he had ever uttered. Even as realisation comforted the gnawing insecurity, Draco's smile slowly died._

"_Oh, so what if I don't bloody know," she snapped, voice shaky. "Just because I—I'm still a bit…a bit…" Hermione swallowed, speaking thickly. "It doesn't mean you don't have a reason to live." It was so cliché that she flinched again, but neither denied her choice of words. A reason to live—yes, that was exactly what had been missing in their lives. Hermione had been lacking a piece of herself since the morning of the first battle. And a small yet vital part of Draco's world had irreparably crumbled this afternoon._

"_I know what I could accomplish, Hermione. I could aim to be the Minister if I choose. But what's the point? What's the point if my own god damn mother turns her back on me?"_

"_There are others…or rather, there might be others, to care for, if you just tried."_

"_Other what, Granger, what? Tell me. Tell me how wonderful it might be if I met new people, people who accept me as a true friend and, hell, maybe even family. That's what you have, isn't it? You have family, friends, and fans, and you still can't get over Weasley."_

"_It's different!" _

"_How?"_

"_I love Ron! You—"_

_He reached out to clamp his hands on her shoulders, not caring if it hurt, enjoying the fear in her eyes. There was nothing quite like power to make one forget pain. "Finish that sentence, Hermione Granger," he invited dangerously. "Tell me how I felt for my mother, go on."_

"_I don't know how much you like her," she admitted brusquely, "but I do know what you'd like me to say. Stop looking for bloody excuses to act a certain way, Draco. You land yourself in these situations, you know. You deliberately provoke Harry and the others. And they think it's because you love being difficult. But I know it's because—because it feels empty inside."_

_He let her go then, because Hermione's voice broke, and he didn't want to hold her when she looked so sad. Draco didn't want to be one of the millions who comforted Granger when she cried._

_But she didn't weep, surprisingly enough. She stepped back from his grip with clenched fists and trembling lips, but there was no danger of watery sorrow from the girl._

"_And there are ways to deal with the void—you enjoy picking fights. I plan missions. There are just different ways for different people. You knew that already, however, so there was no need for me to step in."_

"_My god, Hermione." Draco rubbed his eyes, a disappointed smile on his lips. "It's almost been a year."_

"_And in a year, will you have forgotten your mother?" she asked violently._

"_I'll have tried my damnedest. By then, I will have at least tried."_

_Draco regarded her with pity, and was slightly surprised to see her doing the same. _

"_When you feel the way I felt for Ron, you'll know that forgetting is the last thing you'll ever want to do."_

_She stepped closer. Draco stood his ground, for Hermione Granger had no right to be so condescending._

"_I've no desire to be that pathetic," he told her, regaining his usual tone of dripping disdain._

_She stood just before him now._

"_And if I ever do feel the way you do about someone, I'll have the good sense to choose someone living."_

_She kissed him._

_Her lips felt cool and soft against his cheek, making him wonder at the temperature of this drafty hall way, and if he ought to have made them speak inside his chamber. She pressed against him innocently, leaving a brief impression of wistfulness against his side. Draco felt her mouth linger mournfully against his skin, and silently knew that she wished that he was an entirely different person. And as Hermione pulled back, and slowly turned away, he was struck by the sad sway of her. It was as if all the drowning grief one normally experienced had spread over her as a delicate cloak, tainting every movement, every look, with the tinge of incompletion. _

_How lucky she was, he thought as she silently walked away. To have ever felt that strongly about someone. To be carrying the remnants of that love even now. Even after nearly a year. Even after death._

_Draco Malfoy could not remember ever being so jealous in his entire life. But he could not decide what, exactly, he envied: Weasley's acceptance of such devotion, or Hermione's acceptance of such loneliness. Draco was uncertain if he was capable of either._

"_Do you enjoy being my friend, Granger?" he asked her just before the darkness hid his view of her. "Or do you only tolerate me?"_

_She continued her journey, escaping the lights so that he could only hear a disembodied voice. "I've tolerated you for years now, Draco. But there is no responsibility of you or your well being. I enjoy that."_

_Hermione Granger cared for him because she believed he was her only friend that did not need caring for. Draco did not know how he felt about that._

xoxox

The memories were becoming increasingly detailed and lasting much longer than he would have liked. His own mind warned him of their agonizing arrivals. At first slight sleepiness signaled the beginnings of a flashback; now persistent headaches flared to announce the resurfacing of a recollection. Only once did blood actually spill because of the strange visions, and Malfoy, to comfort himself, attributed the strange incident to the heat of the Muggle's fire.

He attempted to distract himself from his own mental deterioration by exploring the attic and the basement. He was more pleased by the fruits of his labour during his foray into the lowest level of the house, for Hermione had purchased access to the WWN. Most likely for her parents, he guessed, just in case she could not tell them the latest news during The Dark Year. The device was, of course, useless to them after they had died, and so Hermione had chucked the thing out of sight in her cold, dusty basement.

She really was a silly creature, Draco thought to himself as he fiddled with the dial. The perfectly useful device was forever abandoned because of sentiment. It was a wonder she had survived for so long.

"Oh hell," Draco muttered to himself when he heard the familiar caterwauling of Warbeck. Now there was a lady who should have been assassinated during the war. The witch was of no political use to anybody, but Malfoy had a feeling her death would have benefited both sides.

Still, because Celestina was part of the magical world Draco was famished for, he sat through the end of the program. And, even then, the latest gossip made him hate his society a little bit more.

"Ronald Weasley, The Boy Who Died, was seen with his father today outside the…"

"Prewett supposedly missed an important meeting with the Filipino ambassador due to the fact that today would have been _her_ birthday—"

"Sales of _Fred and George: A Double Edged Sword of Fiery Truth and Amazing Bravery during a Rather Damp Stay with the Voldie Bloke_ are still climbing. Some credit this to the reappearance of youngest son Ron Weasley—"

"We now hear even more reports of Harry Potter's unusual and supposedly rude teaching style at Hogwarts. Some parents wish he actually had been on holiday with that Muggle woman on an island, far away from their impressionable children."

"The polls are closed, and thirteen percent find Ronald Weasley's return highly suspicious. One percent believe that it was a coordinated stunt for publicity's sake. Oh that's brilliant, because we all know Potter's so fond of publicity…who the hell wrote this rubbish? And eighty six find The Boy Who Died handsomer than ever. At this point, I am so pleased to point out that the silly intern who wrote and conducted this poll has been sacked."

"Traffic at Diagon Alley was terrible today due to the fact that the Lovegoods decided to have a public funeral for their latest late pet. There are two shocking factors about this story, my dear listeners. One is that the dead animal being mourned is an actual, solid, breathing,—well, scratch that last part—Crumple-Horned Snorkack. The other factor is that Seamus Finnigan had sat on the unbelievable creature, making it look like a common flattened toad. Most believe it to be what the Lovegoods claim, and, being an expert of death himself, Ronald Weasley sent a bouquet to the grieving family."

He listened for another hour, before deciding that he had had enough.

"The Boy Who Died," Draco repeated scornfully as he stomped up the stairs. He sat in Hermione's room, forsaking any furniture for the light before the window. He sat crossed leg on the floor, eyes narrowing at the blank wall.

"Really," he said, dismayed, "the future generations will be utterly disappointed in their forefathers. Making heroes out of the most mundane of tasks. Boy Who Lived, Boy Who Bloody Died…what about this Boy Who Survived a Fucking Freezing Forest? Boy Who Would Have Starved if not for his Superb Brilliance? What about that Boy?"

A year ago, he might have been perfectly terrified by the thought of speaking aloud to absolutely no one. But present circumstances allowed for such boredom-killing tasks. Also, with only himself to listen, it meant that his words were going to a worthy audience.

There were far too many praises for his liking. Oh, yes, a few hints of suspicion here and there, but not enough. The boy just up and gave a "Bugger you" to Death, and everybody acted as if Ron Weasley had earned the right to procrastinate dying. Malfoy suspected there was some nepotism in this.

He arranged it so that he would eat with the Muggles, when necessary, and he would stay for a while to listen and ignore some life lesson the old man insisted on giving. There had never been an invitation to him, really, and nor had Draco ever really asked for lectures. But whenever he was hungry, their door was always unlocked, and the wife didn't look surprised to see him at her table. And when the ancient Muggle prattled on and on about this battle or that war, Draco made a small effort to stay awake. It was a fair trade, he guessed.

His stomach growled idly, and Draco ignored it. Just because the opportunity was there did not mean he was willing to take it. He preferred to spend the minimum amount of time with them.

He suspected there had been a law passed, stating that every news item had to mention Harry Potter and the Potter entourage. That was the only reason any of the Weasleys received the attention they did; all because Harry Potter made them important. The bloke was perfectly willing to accept the praise and privileges given to heroes, but the second anybody peeped a negative word about his "family," Potter threw childish tantrums. Hypocrite.

But, damn him, he was a terrific wizard. Draco would never admit it, even if his life depended on it, but it must have taken a staggering amount of power to…well, do whatever Potter had done to his mind. Each image was more disturbing than the last. Each punched him with a strength that sent him reeling, as if the vision had been tethered in the unseen dark, struggling to break free. For some reason, after he had left the trying trio, the taut leashes had been brutally severed. Potter had no regard for the aftermath of his cruel actions.

The painful, enlightening aftermath.

xoxox

_The truth always seemed to work with her, and so it seemed sensible to tell her the truth when he arrived upon the realisation. He rather thought that he loved her, against his better judgment, and he would have been pleased if she felt the same._

_She hadn't felt the same. Delicately, politely, but determinedly, Hermione had pushed his declaration away._

_He had used the dreaded L word for her a few weeks prior, to no effect at all. She was the first who hadn't leapt straight into his arms and, consequently, the bed. Oh, it wasn't as if he had lied to simply gain a shagging. At the time, love seemed to be the only emotion he hadn't ever really felt. And, coincidentally, what he had felt for Hermione had been a mysterious something never before encountered. Draco suspected, however, after her ungrateful rejection, that he had confused gratitude and love, for his heart hadn't broken as he walked away, and there was no need for getting pissed afterwards._

_But it hadn't been a mistake to tell her that he loved her either. Whatever he felt for her, it was nowhere near as strong as what Weasley had felt for her, or what she felt for the dead bloke. That was certain; that was unchangeable. But in comparison to the experiences of his life, Malfoy's regard for her was very significant indeed._

_It had bothered him that she hadn't sought him out after that awkward declaration of love, and it bothered him now that they continued as she wished them to continue: as friends, pretending that nothing had happened. Worse yet, he was grateful for that, for any of the crumbs she threw his way. In the back of his mind, Draco knew that he had sunk to a new low, and he did not care._

_Nobody could love a dead somebody for that long, Draco reasoned to himself when he accepted her affirmation. What she felt was guilt, and probably misconstrued that as love. Although Draco had never experienced it, he suspected there was always lingering regret over a past love, and such stubborn emotions were dangerous. Take Hermione, for example; her determination to stay loyal to Ron was ruining her chances with a better candidate. The silly witch was just lucky he was a patient suitor. _

_When Christmas came, she became even more subdued, despite the fact that this was the time of year during which everybody tried their best to put on a fake smile. There was no constancy in the student body, for, just as every year, some students chose to remain while others decided to risk it all to return to their families. Hermione had decided to remain, under the guidance of Harry and Dumbledore. Draco also wished to have the one person who tolerated him around for the holidays, but never said so. He knew confidently that she would stay, for there was no home for her to return to._

_Draco suspected this Christmas was a particularly difficult time for her, for there were times when he spied her red eyes and heard her hiccupping sobs in passing. Harry or Ginny were the ones to comfort her there. If she wished for his sympathy, then he would have gladly, if not falsely, offered it. _

_He was not a fool. He learned why this holiday proved more trying than the others. Weasley had proposed around this time. On this date last year, she had been planning on spending the rest of her life with the dead hero. _

_There had been a feast, small but fulfilling, and then some half hearted gift exchanging. Many students felt there was no use in celebrating when the world was so uncertain. Hermione had not been one of those crestfallen children, and smiled more than the rest of them. It was only later, after he had finished his walk about the grounds, that he found her sitting on his bed._

"_You really oughtn't do that," she said quietly, sniffling somewhat. "It's dangerous to check the perimeter by yourself."_

"_With Hagrid injured," Draco replied as he shook off his cloak, "there is no one else to maintain the defenses." He did not like the sound of his words, for it seemed as if he was doing the giant oaf a favour. "Even when his foot was all right, he's a bloody idiot when it comes to such spells. It's best that I take care of them."_

_He watched her carefully as he set his cloak on a chair, and then proceeded to not notice her at all as he untied his shoes and set them by the fire. Even with the moonlight timidly creeping through the boarded windows, and the size of the roaring flames in the grate, Hermione still appeared oddly shadowed. He strangely felt that all the light in the word could not reveal her thoughts at the moment._

_Silently, he sat by her, closer than he had dared in months, and peered into her profile. Hermione was sad, but then, wasn't she always sad? If she smiled with pure joy, Draco reflected, nobody would recognise her. _

_He then noticed a familiar scent wafting from her, and leaned back with amusement._

"_Drowning your sorrow in alcohol, Hermione?" he teased dryly with crossed arms. "It's rather trite, even for you."_

"_Oh, I tried," she sighed miserably with a shrug of her shoulders, "but I do hate the taste of this." She held up the bottle, and Draco noted that the contents had hardly been lessened at all._

"_That's mine," he protested, but made no move to take it from her._

"_Yes, I know. You're the only one I could have asked without fear of judgment."_

"_But you didn't ask," he pointed out. "You just took." Draco was by no means an alcoholic, and so the actual liquid meant very little to him. But a lack of discipline in his childhood nurtured his idea that, if he was not to enjoy something, then nobody else should either._

"_Only a little," she replied defensively, and tossed the bottle into his lap. "And it's horrible any way. It's very much like petrol."_

"_It's an acquired taste," he informed her coolly, tucking the bottle under his pillow for later use. "Well? Are you adequately smashed enough to leave me alone?"_

_Her answer was not an answer at all. "Do you still love me?"_

"_I haven't thought of it," he replied sincerely, too caught off guard to say anything but the truth. _

"_But if you do think of it," she pushed, turning her head so that he could see her entire, desperate expression, "what would you say?"_

"_I'd say…I'd say that the regard I felt for you when I said those words hasn't changed," he hazarded, distrusting the words even as he spoke them. He still possessed doubts of her person and her character, some of which had been magnified tenfold since her rejection of him. At this moment, Draco supposed he maintained his affection partially for curiosity's sake._

_Still, no matter how scientific his dissection became, Draco noticed that his pulse raced wildly at the encouragement in her tone._

"_That's good," Hermione nodded, sounding quite unsure herself, "That's good."_

"_Good for what?" he asked sharply, shifting uneasily away. There wasn't much "away" however, on a bed._

"_I've produced a theory," she began unsteadily, "just today. About how it hurts so much, and how, no matter what I do, it doesn't get better. That crap about time healing all wounds just doesn't apply to you and me, Draco, so I figured—I figured that—we should just help each other."_

"_Help each other how?" The suspicion in his voice had now moved towards outright indignation._

"_Well, you said it!" she argued, becoming accusatory. "You told me that I didn't know if there was anything in our future worth all this god damned effort. And you don't know either."_

"_And what?" he demanded virulently. "You propose to learn together?"_

"_Yes—no—I meant we could just help each other. I just don't know, exactly, what that means," she mumbled uncertainly, her words trailing off as she looked down at the bed sheets. "But sometimes I feel, Draco, as if you're the only one to speak to. Harry knows what I feel, but it's impossible to make him talk like we talk—"_

"_So am I the second choice?"_

"_Yes, but, surely, you knew that."_

_It was a deep cut she had just dealt, but it was a compliment nonetheless. No polite verbal dancing for him, no. She thought him impenetrable, and treated him as such. _

_Hermione scooted closer, but with as much appeal as an approaching disaster. Despite his horror and offense, he remained where he was. _

"_I feel too much," she confessed in a hushed tone, eyes red and wet. "And you don't feel at all," Hermione condemned, watching yet uncaring as he winced at the accusation. "It is not so insensible to believe we could force it to work."_

Force it to work_, Draco repeated numbly in his mind as she closed her eyes and kissed him. God, he hated those words. He hated her expression as she leaned towards him, as if she had just decided to end her own misery. He hated his own surrender to the kiss, turning her timid endeavour into his own brutal revenge. _

_Draco didn't want a bloody submission. He never wished to be anybody's second best. Nobody ever grew up hoping to be the reason somebody forgot her true love. Catching the snarls of her curls, his hands rose to press her harder against him. He would show her the ugliness of "forcing it to work." Malfoy did not wish to be her future regret._

_With a small, alarmed cry, she pushed him away. Before Hermione could speak, he stood, and stared down at her with broiling disdain. "Why did you do that?" Draco demanded, his entire body tense as if waiting for a brawl. "Why did you do that?"_

"_Because…because I love you."_

_Love and understanding were two different things. Draco saw that now, and was furious that she, Hermione Granger, the expert of all things, did not._

"_Really?" he laughed scornfully, crossing the room to open the door. How much had she drunk, any way?_

"_Yes, really," was the quick—too quick—reply. "Why would I say it if I didn't meant it?"_

"_Because you _pity_ me."_

_She pitied him and she pitied herself, but feeling sorry for any one was no reason to lie to them about love. That was crueler than no love at all._

_She watched him, shame and fury playing on her features. "Get out," he ordered, flinging open the door. "Just…just get out."_

_Hermione meekly complied, and he would have been satisfied to spend the rest of his Christmas night brooding, if she had not softly apologised as she passed him._

_He had forgiven her in that instant._

_It was mad. She was proposing to use him, in a manner that was far worse than he had ever used her. And yet, even before she finished her "I'm sorry," Draco found her apology to be sincere, and silently pardoned her transgression. The swiftness of his decision was without reason. And it was in that dangerous circumstance—a total lack of rationality—in which love ambushed unsuspecting prey. Had he not been shockingly pleased by his affection for her, Malfoy would have been dismayed by his vulnerability._

_Oh no, she definitely did not love him. But it was becoming alarmingly clear that he was beginning to truly need her. What he had declared in the past was an infantile infatuation compared to what he felt now. He knew her flaws and did not think less of her for them. She had spied his vulnerability and had not taken advantage of his unshielded words. They understood each other._

_It was a singular feeling, being understood, and liked at the same time. Draco wanted to cling to that feeling forever._

xoxox

Morning found Draco lying underneath a mountain of blankets. He was awake, but could not find the motivation to do what awake people did. He stared at the blankness of the blankets, trying to sort out the tangle in his head.

_I think I'm going to be sick_, he realised distantly. But that meant he'd have to get up, so he pushed away the urge to gag and retraced the latest sensational story his mind had presented.

He shouldn't have been surprised. All the events before that one showed that he was becoming increasingly fond of her. It was no secret that Harry Potter feared the developing friendship. For good reason, apparently.

Whatever he felt for Hermione Granger...it had been more than "like." And, when he thought of the memories his mind had recently decided to hurl at him, Draco was beginning to believe his affection for her had shattered past "like" and had moved frighteningly close to "love." Against all reasoning and his own upbringing, the little witch had managed to ensnare him without any effort at all. This required some analysis.

Draco didn't want to do it.

He reckoned his head would implode if he tried to figure out the disaster now. He needed to eat, to talk with somebody besides himself, and play an easy game of chess. Maybe, if he ignored it long enough, the details would shift and he'd find out that he had never liked her at all. Malfoy found the chances of this very low indeed, but cowardly ran away from the shattering revelation all the same.

"Hermione Granger…I understand she has a son, now?"

Those were the first words the wife had said to him—at least, as far as Draco could remember. Her quietness was the one trait that made her slightly more tolerable than her husband.

Draco nodded, and pushed the plate away. He wasn't full, not nearly, but Malfoy was in no mood for conversation today. At least, not with this woman.

"Out of wedlock, I assume."

Clearly, she expected his supporting disapproval, which he would normally give without hesitation. Instead, he nodded again.

"Are you not worried about being associated with such a shamed family?"

The family reputation was inconsequential amongst Muggle lines. The only time any respectable wizard had to worry about Muggle and catastrophe was if one little vermin had some how managed to climb his own family tree…

"My friend's personal business is no affair of yours," he told her crisply, quelling the alarm in his chest.

"It is, if such low class harlots are living next door," was the unexpectedly violent reply.

Draco was stunned when a surge of pure fury filled him, bringing to mind the most painful of hexes for this miserable harpy. How dare she? Didn't she know that Hermione Granger had helped save her worthless little world? It made his teeth clench to have the termagant even say anything to him, let alone about his friend—

"Oh you'd know all about harlotry, wouldn't you?" The husband had shuffled in, eyeing his spouse belligerently. He turned his suspicious eye towards Draco. "Trapped me into marriage, you know."

Draco did not know which was more unbelievable; the fact that she was willing to ensnare such a paltry prize, or the fact that he had been dragged to marriage, trap or no. Surely, any man with two legs could run away from the matrimonial sentencing, reputation be damned.

But Malfoy sent the due amount of disgust to the wife, and left the small house with a respectful nod to the man. The sneer returned to his face when he returned to the Granger residence.

Such low character. At least his parents had the decency to pretend love for one another.

He couldn't imagine a life like that. It was horrible enough that they had no magic, to make their humdrum lives somewhat better. Lucius and Narcissa were not exactly passionate for one another, but at least they had respect for each other's goals and accomplishments. Both wanted to advance themselves and their family.

Draco had always known that he'd marry somebody he'd _respect_, at the very least. Chances were the prospective bride would have to be somebody his parents had liked as well, so there was little danger of causing uproar. He didn't know if he'd be able to handle being chained to somebody he absolutely detested.

Was it possible to not respect somebody but still like them?

Well…yes. It was called pity.

xoxox

"_It's been inordinately awkward these past few days," she noticed sullenly._

"_And I intend to keep it that way," he replied. "So please stop talking. Speaking about the awkwardness will only kill it, and I know how you abhor violence."_

_She sat underneath one window at the end of the corridor. He had just walked around the corner of the other end. _

"_I should hope we could remain friends. We've both spoken rashly, but that's no reason—"_

"_I find that a perfect reason. Now I don't want to speak to you."_

"_You just did."_

"_Well, I won't again."_

"_But you just did again."_

"_I—damn it, Hermione, shut the hell up."_

_By this time, he was swiftly approaching the sitting girl, and the familiarity of the situation struck him. She must have sensed it as well, for she scrambled to her feet, and left the book on the floor. _

"_We were never very good friends, so it's unimaginable that you should wish to keep such a friendship alive," he reasoned._

"_Well, I've a much better imagination than you, Draco, so you really have no say in the matter. Friends don't just give anything up on each other, you know."_

_No, he wouldn't know, for his friends had given up on him, and vice versa, as casually as one discarded rubbish. So, reacting in the only way he knew how, Draco scoffed and abandoned her, treated her with as much contempt as possible, and accepted all tokens of friendship when offered. Malfoy was as bad a friend as Granger was good, and so there was an unhealthy balance between them that horrified others and amused the two in question immensely. He tried to warn her off, most likely repeating everything Potter and Weasley had already told her._

"_I'm going to take advantage of our friendship, you know. I'm going to make impossible requests, and charm you into making decisions you won't like later"_

"_Cocky little Death Eater, aren't you?" she had laughed._

Draco was becoming increasingly aware of something cold and smooth behind his feet. His toes were freezing.

"_You kissed me."_

Was he awake? These…things usually only came when he slept, or at the beginnings of slumber. Flashbacks never interrupted his waking world so boldly before. Draco felt himself sway and wondered with fear if he was conscious enough to stay upright. Good god, where was he? Was the floor soft enough to cushion his fall, if the memory proved too strong to handle?

"_Yes. Always a bright one, weren't you?"_

"_Why?" she wanted to know. Her eyes held all the innocence of a lost Hermione Granger, who never knew war and sacrifice. Draco was inexplicably happy to know that he had made her regain that blissful ignorance, if only for a little while._

In another world and a different time, Draco felt his body pitch forward, and sharp pain to his lower abdomen as something braced his fall. Blindly, his hands grasped for balance.

"_A thanks, I suppose, from all those who won't give it."_

_It was the night of their third kiss._

xoxox

Draco gripped the sides of the sink, blinking and slowly finding his way back to the present. He had come in here just after brunch to wash his hands. With a side ways glance to the window, he saw that it was nearly tea time.

"Bloody hell."

They were getting out of control, these memories. Rude, uninvited crap. They gave him headaches, made him sick to his stomach, and generally fucked up his way of thinking. Really, it was annoying.

And so now what was he to do? Anybody with his symptoms would normally lie down and take a nap. But what good was a god damn nap when all that would accomplish was bring more memories? Because he felt so unsteady, Draco sat himself on Hermione's bed, but with something strongly resembling a pout. He was not going to sleep. There was no way in hell he was going to sleep. No. _No_. He refused.

xoxox

"_I've gotten rid of the house elves," he told her by way of greeting. Draco had made the decision due to the fact that he was housing and feeding them at home when they had no one to serve—lousy little leeches. Still, after turning them out, Malfoy thought that Hermione would have liked to know._

"_With full pensions, I hope," she replied._

"_Yes," he lied, "that too." He waited. This was the part during which she expressed her admiration for his generosity, and bestowed a kiss or two. But she only smiled approvingly and went about her business. _

_As a belated Christmas present, he brought her a shrubbery. Truthfully, he had forgotten that Noel had existed at all, and had pulled the stubborn plant out of the ground as he finished his rounds. Hidden creatures within the shrubbery proved rather violent, however, and the thing had to be tossed into the lake. But no worries, for she smiled any way, and that was quite enough._

_He flirted because he meant it; she flirted because she needed the distraction. When Potter had returned from finally winning the war once and for all, she needed to celebrate, and he was there. When Potter ran away and Ginny had shut herself away from society for a bit, Draco was the one who accompanied Hermione back to Ickham, to take care of business._

"_What's an Ickham?" he asked her absently while they ate supper._

"_I'm from Ickham," she told him in a chastising tone. Hermione looked up briefly from her meal to send him a knowing stare. "But you knew that, didn't you?"_

_He did not answer, and, for some reason, could not meet her eyes. Later, Draco would wonder if she made the point simply to smother him with guilt, so that he could not refuse her later request of his escort to her old home._

xoxox

Draco slowly opened his eyes, and found himself in the same position he had been sitting when he was refusing to fall asleep.

"Well shit," he said in a defeated tone. The room was dark and the hunger in his stomach had passed while he remembered. Now there was a dull ache in his abdomen, which was familiar and bearable.

At this rather late point, Malfoy guessed there was no use fighting them. It was an unnaturally submissive attitude for him, but, clearly, there was nothing to do to stop the flashbacks.

And why should he stop them? Draco sat up even straighter. They were rightfully his, after all. It was Potter's fault that he was enduring this pain at the moment, but, ultimately, the discomfort was necessary. He had a right to his own mind, really.

Having slept the entire day, Draco could not find rest in the night. He stood before the book shelf, eyes trained on one gaudy, metallic spine. Before he could stop himself, curiosity lifted his hand forward, and grasped the well worn book with eagerness.

Draco sat at her desk and opened it to a random page. His eyes were glued blindly to a photograph of the world's longest earthworm. Odd that the disgusting specimen should make him think even more of Hermione Granger. Well, perhaps not so odd. For even though he was disgusted by the subjects, Draco still wished to know more.

He read until night fell, and imagined her reactions to each absurd fact. Hermione Granger was nothing if not enjoyably predictable.

xoxox

"_Why in god's name do you have so many repugnant statues?" he asked, strolling about the room._

"_They're—they were my father's."_

"_Well then, why did he have such horrible taste in sculpture?" he asked frankly._

_Hermione looked ready to be offended, but then smiled with a shrug. "He likes films, Draco, and to have some sort of memorabilia from the films made him feel as if he had been part of it."_

_He gave a snort, but Hermione again quietly ignored his disrespect. Draco knew he was supposed to be helping her do something, but he was in a good mood, and refused to let domestic work dampen this rare emotion. Despite his scorn, Hermione noticed his cheer, and remarked upon it as she draped sheets over the furniture._

_Draco shrugged instead of explaining, for he was, for once, reluctant to brag about something._

_He wasn't like her any more. Draco had his family back, while she had nothing. They weren't quite the same, when it was their unique inability to heal properly that had forged their friendship. And now…well, now, he was fixed. Normal._

_Mum hadn't exactly been talkative since he was welcomed back to their home, but that was to be expected. Stubborn little witch, and a bit proud too. Draco supposed she learned that from his father. She suddenly could not accept defeat, even if defeat meant living with her precious son once more. If the moping, crying, caterwauling existence she had perfected could be called "living."_

_As happy as he was to secure Narcissa once more, Draco was unsure how to break the news to Granger. It wasn't going to be like the old days, when she'd drop by without warning or invitation. And he certainly could not help her with nonsense like grieving and moving, not when his mother was ready to take a merry jump out the window at every opportunity. _

_He frowned at the girl's back as she cleared the mantel. Malfoy wasn't quite sure what worried him more—the doomed fate of their friendship, or his mum's health. Or the fact that his friendship with Granger actually meant more to him than his mum's health. It was a bit scary, how the Muggle born witch somehow made him care that much._

"_Draco?" she called, her voice echoing a bit in the nearly empty house. Draco turned away from the fire place, and watched as she taped the box flaps shut. "You seem a bit distracted."_

_He said nothing, and only followed her up the stairs like a silent, sulking boy. As far as friends went, she required surprisingly little maintenance. Hell, as far as females went, she was the ideal specimen. She didn't even snap at him when he blatantly ignored her like that, and nor did she berate him when he proved to be a total lack of help. Draco supposed that her years with the two buffoons had acclimatized her to the company of useless gentlemen._

"_Is it your mum?" she asked sympathetically._

_No surprise registered on his face, but, inwardly, he had gasped a shamefully shocked gasp. "Beg your pardon?" he asked indifferently._

"_Your mum. She's come back, hasn't she? Is she giving you trouble?"_

_She spoke so casually of what was surely a monumental obstacle to their relationship. "She does very little, to tell you the truth," he answered after a pause._

"_Hmm."_

_When it was apparent that the end of the war was near, Draco had been looking forward to stepping up his efforts towards Hermione Granger. He hadn't counted on his mum's returning presence, because…well…he had simply forgotten to think of her. Granger helped with that endeavour, and now, it had all backfired. And he didn't want to give either one up, for two reasons. One, Hermione Granger was less annoying than previously assumed. And B, there was no asylum that could handle his mum, not without some sort of messy homicides involved. It was out of the question to just lock Narcissa up until she got better, because Draco was certain there were rules about that…_

"_I'm hungry," Hermione announced, and stood, wiping the dust off her knees. "Where do you want to go?"_

_He frowned at her, irked that she constantly interrupted his thoughts. Never mind that he was in her home, and was at liberty to be mentally interrupted. "I planned on going home, actually."_

"_Cheap," Hermione remarked, leading the way down the stairs once more. "What will we be having?"_

"_My mum will be there," he stated._

"_Well, yes, Draco, but I've never been fond of cannibalism."_

"_She never liked you."_

"_That's to be expected, as we all thought she didn't like anybody but you," Hermione replied, waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs like an impatient wife. "But it's quite all right if she glares and snipes at me, because I've endured too much to be intimidated by the likes of her." When Draco made no encouraging movements, she sighed and marched up half way. "Draco, don't be silly. The world won't explode if your friend and your mother dislike each other."_

_Yes, that was quite common, wasn't it? As far as he could remember, his mum never had a kind word for either of his father's parents. The sore subject of in-law relations actually proved to be quite useful as conversation starters during those awkward family dinners consisting of just the three of them._

_The tightening burden of this problem suddenly loosened in his chest, and, for the first time in a few days, Draco could breathe properly. He would not lose her._

"_Unless, it's you who doesn't want me to come," Hermione continued blithely, and Draco was sure she was masking the hurt, "and you're simply using your mother as a cover."_

"_No," he said softly, and walked briskly past her, "come, I don't care. I just don't think I have anything to eat, that's all." It used to be a foreign concept—his kitchen, completely without food. But with Hermione and the Ministry taking up most of his time, Draco sometimes utterly forgot the necessities of living. If not for the constant monitoring his mother required, he would have never returned home at all._

"_I'll be sure to get something then," Hermione said as she shrugged into her coat. She paused when she felt him help her with the collar, and quickly stepped out of his grasp to hand him his wraps. To avoid his swift frown, she joked, "Why is it that I'm always stocking your pantry? Can't you take care of yourself?"_

"_Clearly I can't," he retorted, a hint of a smile creeping upon his sulky expression. "You might have to shack up with me, to avoid my death."_

_She blushed slightly, and pushed him out the door so that she could lock it properly. "You really ought to stop that, you know," Hermione told him when she was turned away from him._

"_Stop what?"_

"_Flirting, going on. It makes people uncomfortable." He reckoned she was speaking of those Weasley wankers. There was no reason to inform him, for it always made him smile when one of the boys sent him silent, throttling motions behind Granger's back._

"_I don't mind."_

"_Yes…well…" They heard the loud click of the lock, and she turned to him with an absurdly puffed out stance, hands in pockets, shoulders squared, face set with both softness and discomfort. "I sort of do."_

"_Do what?"_

"_Mind. It was well and good to be each other's distraction," she said. Hermione spoke so low, as if telling him a secret. She stepped down from the steps and began to walk, and he followed. Neither knew why, as neither had walked to arrive at the Granger household. But it helped Hermione speak, clearly, and Draco was never one to hinder her. Not without good reason, any way._

"_But now, there's no reason to be distracted. Now, it's just what it is—it's distracting me, us, from what we ought to be doing."_

_Hermione Granger, he thought then, had a complex. He wasn't sure if there was a medical name for her psychiatric condition, but, anonymous or not, she was deeply afflicted by this mad need to be doing what everybody thought she should be doing. Clearly, under their circumstances, it was impossible to do what they "ought" to do, but those with such disorders were often blind to such rationality._

"_It's just a bit of flirting, Hermione." He meant to be jovial, careless, and yet his voice sounded sort of pleading when he spoke, equally low._

"_I'm afraid it means a bit more to one of us," she told the pavement solemnly._

_Stupid of him, oh, so incredibly daft. For one second, for one ecstatic second, Draco Malfoy misconstrued her words. He was ready to tell her that it was quite all right if she was afraid to be led on by his easy charm, for, in her case, he had meant it. In the space of a heartbeat, he was ready to shake her for her stupidity, for, clearly, he liked her back. Loved her back, if she allowed it._

_For one, small, sad moment._

_She looked up and sideways at him, eyes saying more than any thing her smart mouth could have produced. Hermione Granger thought she was adroit when it came to others' sensitivities. Stupid girl. When it came to other things distant from her own emotions, yes, she was a bloody diplomat. But when it came to her feelings, her safety, her god damned personal space—_

"_Draco," she prodded tenderly._

_If she didn't want him to like her that way, then she shouldn't have spoken to him so…so temptingly! If she didn't wish to break his heart, then she shouldn't have tolerated everything he said with such warm glances! If she wasn't such a heartless tease—_

"_Draco, please—"_

"_For god's sake, Granger," he hissed, stopping in his tracks. He only walked with her because he didn't trust Muggles, and God only knew what sort of degenerates would be lurking about this magicless neighborhood. "You think you do people a favour when you speak so aimlessly like that, when, truly, you just make it so bloody painful I'd have preferred a hammer to my skull. Just say it, damn it."_

"_I didn't mean—" she began, surprised and subdued by his vehemence._

"_No, you never do, do you? You presume that I, Draco Malfoy—"_

"_But don't you?" she asked sharply, hurt making her volume rise._

"_No! God, the ego of you! It's appalling." _

"_I was just making sure that neither of us became…too—too involved—" Hermione's face was beginning to redden, and it was not due to the cold air. _

"_No, you're just taking care of yourself, again. You always need a friend, and Potter's abandoned you, so you need to make sure that I stay—"_

"_I have plenty of friends," she spat, "in case you haven't noticed. I have loads. It's you I'm worried about. It's you who needs taking care of. As far as I can tell, you only have one good friendship, and that one is in serious danger if you keep exploding without reason like this."_

"_Without reason," he repeated, amazed. "You just—it's your fault!"_

"_What is?"_

"_This—this thing, the thing that you said we should avoid. It's your fault it happened!"_

"_What?"_

"_Do I have to draw you a bloody picture?"_

_It was at that point that Draco noticed a neighbor's face in the window, beyond Granger's shoulder, and frowned darkly. Roughly grabbing her elbow, he steered her back towards her home. "Look, you're not allowed to do this," he warned her through clenched teeth. She threw him a dark look, but said nothing as she struggled to keep up with his quick pace. "I've given no pretenses as far as this 'friendship' is concerned. So it is false, unforgivably false, for you to 'suddenly' realise the negative effects of receiving my attention. If you did not want me to…" He paused, struggling for the right words that did not sound too trite. It was impossible. "If you did not want me to increase my affections for you, then you should have never let it begin."_

"_And I'm the only one to blame for this?" she asked skeptically. Hermione had put her petite foot down, and refused to climb up the stairs. He stood one step up, looking down at her with hard, unsympathetic eyes. Hardly the gaze of an ardent lover._

"_Yes," he said, with an exaggerated sigh._

"_I, alone, am the one to blame. Despite my many small, and then embarrassingly broad hints that I did not like you that way, it is entirely my fault? I'm the only person with a mouth with which to say, 'Stop, this is a bad idea?'"_

"_Yes, clearly," he agreed. "You're a persistent little bugger, Hermione Granger. Have you ever tried getting rid of you?"_

_It was a nonsensical question, and both decided to ignore it. "Besides, you can't expect me to be the one to stop it all, because I'm the one in love. Of course I'm going to welcome your attentions! As the one who is supposedly not in love, you have the responsibility to make sure things don't go farther than you intend—"_

"_Shut up, Draco, just for a second," she ordered, sounding both concerned and disturbed. "I thought you only liked me."_

"_Yeah…"_

"_But you just said—"_

_Draco reviewed what he had just rambled on about, and mentally kicked himself. "Well, it doesn't matter what I said, does it?" he asked acerbically. "You don't 'feel the same way.'"_

"_Stop it with the insincere emphasis, Draco." She sounded as if he was causing her a headache. "You're just being obnoxious."_

"_You used to like my obnoxiousness."_

"_You've deluded yourself into thinking I like a lot of things about you," Hermione rejoined harshly. Too harshly, she realised, for even as she finished her words, Granger's brown eyes widened._

"_Well, you're an expert in delusion, aren't you Granger?" he asked bitingly. Draco watched as her mind flitted from one emotion to the next. Shock, anger, regret, embarrassment…but always back to regret. He knew, simply knew without the slightest doubt, that she was wishing to take back everything she had told him in confidence. Her secrets were now his ammunition. And when he was hurt, Draco was willing to use every weapon available._

xoxox

Where was she now? Draco wondered this as he flipped through the silver book, not stopping to wonder why he was wondering. He sat on the stairs that led to the back garden, because the house was oppressive and there had been nothing better to do.

The cheerful morning sun did nothing to alleviate the gloom of his thoughts. That incident in Ickham…it was painful, to say the least. In hindsight, Draco could not fathom why he simply did not give up.

Snogging somebody red haired. Cuddling that infant. She was warm, and smiling, and for some reason the images niggled him. Happy people always bothered him, but the fact of her happiness wasn't the troubling matter. Draco was plagued with the unknown identity of who was sharing her smiles.

These memories were troubling, on several levels. It was difficult to believe that he had overcome his basic dislike of her. His opinion of her had altered, of course, but that did not change what she was. Muggle-born. Unnatural. Not even one drop of redeeming blood in her. It was sickening, gut wrenching, to know that the beliefs pounded in him all his life were wrong, but there stood the proof, embodied by one Hermione Granger.

The nuisance had proved that purer blood did not a better wizard make. She proved that the complicated social network his father had perfected and the flawless etiquette Narcissa had taught were all bollocks.

He took what had to be the sixtieth tour of the entire Granger house, and finished in ten minutes. A tour of the Malfoy abode required a day and a map, and, if you were smart, a flask of water.

It was hopelessly small. He couldn't fathom how the close walls managed to shelter her big head from the rain, let alone accommodate two other adults. And there were more books than bookshelves, a habit which her parents possessed as well. The household was neat, but gave no impression of anything—not wealth, not power, not the idea that if you broke anything, you would die a hilariously painful death. He guessed that she might have donated her parents' clothes, except for a few careworn pieces that must have had some fond memories attached to them. Logical and sentimental. Irksome little paradox.

"It's because I'm a Virgo," she had told him once, laughing yet oddly sincere in the explanation. "We're the ones to turn to in times of crisis, yet we're very in touch with our feelings."

"Rubbish," was his amused reply. "Besides, you've just described women in general, not the lucky few born in your month."

He lingered within the house for a few days, deciding that, if he was to be bombarded by sporadic fits of reliving, it was best done alone. There was nobody to witness his pain, nobody to mock his horrified confusion.

The second priority after the resurfacing of memories was a far more easier to deal with. Draco was angry as hell at Potter, even before all the memories returned to him. Bastard had gone into his head, stolen his memories, and manipulated the handicapped version to his liking. He hadn't wanted to help them with resurrecting Weasley, and that selfish piece of crap had blatantly ignored all the basic rules of humanity to turn Draco Malfoy into a mindless slave.

Well, perhaps "mindless slave" was a bit of an exaggeration, but he was definitely misinformed. Draco couldn't remember why Potter assumed bribery and blackmail wouldn't guarantee his cooperation, but there must have been a tremendously good reason why the little piece of shit went straight for dark magic. Malfoy wasn't sure what he wanted to do to Potter the moment he saw him again, and, even if he decided on the best course of retaliation, he was pitifully handicapped without his wand.

Draco knew that to mortally wound Potter would put a damper on his friendship with Hermione, but, really, it was simply badly done of the tosser. That sort of mental invasion was too risky for such a petty matter of bringing Ron Weasley back. It could have caused permanent damage. It could have driven him mad. He might have died, for god's sake. One simply didn't do that to another person, who hadn't done anything to you in return.

xoxox

"_So how do you plan to do it, exactly?"_

_Draco looked down at his bedridden former school mate, and found himself slightly annoyed. For a one-legged boy who was about to die, Blaise Zabini looked offensively fit._

_Then again, Blaise Zabini knew a great deal about covering the vileness beneath a meticulous appearance. _

"_Beg your pardon?"_

_He had the nerve to smirk. Crossing his arms, Blaise explained smugly, "My guess is you weren't too happy with the owl I attempted to send Granger a few months back. I also suppose you've finally grown a pair and have decided to force her hand—persuasion, I've read, hasn't exactly been successful."_

_Draco did not let his surprise flicker across his gaunt face. Although Zabini was about to reach his end, Malfoy was just petty enough to want every advantage over him. But he hadn't known that the rumour mills had used his pathetic pining over Hermione Granger as fodder. Naively, he had thought the speculation had resided solely within the Weasley family and their odd little circle of friends._

"_But, in order to do that, you'd like this little pesky former admirer out of the way, yeah? So, Draco Malfoy, how exactly do you plan to kill me? This is a public hospital, the nurse—she fancies me, you know—checks on me with affectionate regularity, and the press is keeping a close eye on you since your nutter of a mum's death. So, I'm curious. Just what do you plan to do?"_

_Too disturbed by the recent news of his unwanted publicity, Draco answered softly, "Poison."_

"_Poison?" Blaise Zabini scoffed. "That's all you can come up with? Good god, the Malfoys were just as overrated as mother said. Who do you think you can fool—"_

"_Who do you think you're fooling," Draco cut in with a cold hiss, "when everybody knows your mother did not have the time nor the desire to speak to you from the time you were born. Too busy servicing every nobleman in the country, I suspect, and a few commoners for fun. You may be a pure blood, Blaise Zabini, but you're also a bastard in every sense of the word, so I am warning you. Do not dare to patronise me."_

_His entire body was rigidly wound up for a fight, and Blaise thought for a moment that the depressed, colourless young man would pounce from the chair and choke him to death. But within a few moments, Malfoy forced himself to relax, and walked with effortless grace to where a tray of food sat on the bedside table. With a mechanical manner, he reached within his robes and pulled out a vial. As he spilt the clear, thick contents in the thick pea soup, Blaise spoke with a more cautious tone._

"_Lucky I'm not in the mood for soup today."_

"_I suppose there's no harm in telling you the plan at this point. You're going to finish this meal. I'm going to leave here and look properly comforted by the only friend I have left. In a day or two, you're going to die. Painfully, and, unfortunately suddenly. In a few hours or so, your throat will close, so that you cannot say what hurts and who is probably to blame. They'll come up with some ridiculous theory, maybe a virus contracted while you hid your sorry arse during the war, and that will be that."_

_Slowly, he pulled out his wand, and regarded Blaise thoughtfully. "And you will finish your food, Zabini, that I'm sure of. It's apart of the deal you've set up with that nurse you love so much. Almost cute, really, the way she cares about your health in the most unprofessional manner. You finish that soup, you get all your letters delivered,—letters the Ministry would not approve of in the slightest."_

_Blaise, ill and less disciplined when it came to maintaining impassivity, met Draco's grey gaze with furious surprise._

"_Oh yes, Zabini, you're not the only one with contacts left in the world. But don't worry your empty little head about it. You're going to forget my plan. You're going to forget that I ever came. Maybe the memory will come to you as you die, I'm not sure. You're going to go on as if this is a regular day, and by this time tomorrow, you'll no doubt be on your way to hell."_

_Blaise's eyes darted to his food, and then opened his mouth to scream for help. Annoyed, Draco immobilised him before he became even more troublesome. _

"_Look at the bright side, Zabini," Draco sighed as he moved to the foot of the bed, wand pointed steadily at the terrified boy. "Considering all of the Death Eaters killed during the war you fled, there's the odd chance of finding your father in the afterlife."_

_Funny. He didn't move, but he somehow radiated hot waves of pure hatred. Draco, while impressed, did not care._

"_Obliviate."_

xoxox

He awoke with a start, and his bleary eyes read the clock. It was not even midnight. There was no reason to wake up—

Oh. Oh yes. The dream.

_The memory_, he corrected himself. At least it hadn't been disturbing. Draco viewed murder like others viewed garden work. Annoying, messy, but necessary.

But he couldn't understand why he had taken the risk to kill Blaise prematurely. After all, he could have waited a few months before somebody or other found reason to murder the bloke. Or, if he was feeling especially patient, he could have waited a year or two for Zabini to be brought to trial for all his secret, heinous hobbies. So why had he taken justice into his own hands, if he and Hermione were angry with one another at the time?

_Pride_, Draco concluded after a long moment's thought. It must have been pride. He did not wish for Blaise to continue sending his pesky little messages to Hermione about his pathetic, unrequited love, when he had emphatically told Hermione that he was keen to forget his "deluded" crush on her.

The next day, Draco thought about his and Blaise Zabini's relationship during school. He was the only one who ever equaled his status and position within the Slytherin house. Well, almost equaled. He was still a bastard.

Hermione respected him well enough. In fact, because she was completely ignorant when it came to Zabini's true nature, Draco suspected that Hermione might have actually preferred the illegitimate bloke over the other Slytherins. Blaise rarely voiced his disgust of the mixed blooded in public. He was relatively quiet, minded his own business, and achieved surprisingly decent marks. Of course Hermione had no reason to dislike him.

Draco did, however. First of all, where did the git get off, acting so lofty when he was only at Hogwarts due to the charity of a distant relative? Also, there were rumours of squibs in the Zabini family. That in itself was deplorable. Malfoys had the good sense to kill both the squibs and the rumours whenever they ever popped up.

And secondly, he was not so tight lipped nor as stately as everybody assumed. The Zabinis were an unstable lot; anybody with gossiping pure blooded relations knew that. They had odd carnal tastes, and capricious explosions of violence. And, although Blaise had been wise enough never to degrade and measure Hermione Granger in the company of others, one could see the sinister admiration in his eyes whenever the tainted witch drew near. It was an admiration that never sat well with Draco.

He wasn't sure who would fall farther. Possibly Hermione, for having been raped by the madman? Or would Blaise have suffered more, for violating somebody of such low origin? Still, he decided to save them from each other, and arranged for Blaise to lose a leg, thus shaming the unassuming lunatic into giving up the position of Head Boy. Again, the journals of Gilderoy Lockhart came in handily for the trick, and, in the end, Blaise's older brother had been punished for the accident.

From the incident, Draco learned the value of the convenience of memory erasure. It never really mattered how badly one behaved, nor how many people had been affected. As long as no one remembered it, the crime was limitless.

Now, Draco considered his circumstances, wondering just whose memory he'd have to manipulate to regain a normal life. Granger…no, he had done something to her already. Besides, he liked—_loved_ her, evidently, and one didn't do that to somebody one loved.

Potter? Draco dismissed the possibility immediately. He was loath to admit it, but Harry Potter was a formidable wizard. He wondered if even Dumbledore could match that scarred arse's power.

Prewett, Malfoy decided. Yes, it was Prewett who wanted him recaptured. It was Prewett who wanted him dead. Or so Potter had told him.

And Draco believed him, for Prewett had every reason to hate him. Still, Draco thought the minister of magic could be a bit more mature about the past. They all made unwanted decisions during the war. Once, Draco had only had a particularly pretty witch killed because she was leaking Death Eater secrets through code in her newspaper articles. He hadn't really wanted the "neutral" witch killed, and it pained him to see such a clever, pretty girl sacrificed for the Dark Lord's cause. If she had minded her own business, none of them would be in this tangle. Draco would not have seen fit to kill her, Prewett would not have present motivation to kill him, and they would all be in relative good health.

Besides, how was he to know that Sabrina Peppercolt was the fiancée of the future minister of magic? Really, the little Spanish seer had failed to mention that. Draco Malfoy wished he could send Prewett the name of the assassin who had actually done the deed, but he had the sneaking suspicion that Harold Gerald the First had already taken care of him personally.

Draco sighed, but then chuckled. The look on Zabini's face!

xoxox

_She just showed up. He hadn't invited her, never gave her any indication of welcome, and yet, damn it all, the witch began her pity visits without fail._

_Draco cared for her, of course, and was pleased to see her visit him despite his constant unacceptable behaviour. But he would have liked to talk to her when he was feeling less weak, and had a firmer grip over his emotions. Wouldn't want her to have the upper hand, after all._

_The first time had been unbearable. The amusement of Zabini's death had faded, and all that was left was a churning coldness. He had cried—well, he assumed that was people would technically call moisture flowing from the eyes—a few days prior, and was quite certain the shameful signs were still present on his face. But Granger had been one of those awful girls who never particularly cared for his face, and nor did she give the smallest of damns for his near palpable aura of menace. She simply…_

"_I don't care for your scowls or your growls," she had told him in a matter of fact voice as he stood at the open door, mind boggled by the sight of her at his door step. Too many questions were tangling his thoughts to form a coherent response. Why was she there? How did she make it past the wards? Was it time to update the security system? Who was to be sacked for this lack of safety—_

"_And it was very rude of you to send this back." She held up an envelope, one encasing the sorts of condolence cards that made his father roll his eyes. The same type of cards his mother would send out nonetheless, if only for etiquette's sake. In their line of work, it was expected to send some sort of condolences for the death of somebody—even if one was politically responsible for that person's death—because that was what civilised people did._

_Draco knew that. He narrowed his eyes at the unopened envelope, and remembered all the absolute shit advice his parents taught him. All their wisdom couldn't save them from their ends, and it certainly wouldn't help him now._

"_I mean, I understand that anger is part of grieving process," Granger told him, so damn condescendingly that he contemplated gagging her with her own hair, as she daintily pushed past him and into the foyer, "but the little note you attached with it was quite rude. Considering the fact that I may be the only person who even deigned to send a fake, 'I'm sorry for your mother's death,' it was unnecessarily violent. And graphic. And I'm fairly certain that you didn't mean the part where you suggested that I—"_

"_What are you doing here?" he demanded, finally deciding that he would rather rot in hell—well, okay, that was already going to happen, but still—than be reprimanded by Granger in his own home. "Scratch that, I don't very much care. Get out."_

"_You've missed work."_

"_Good bye."_

"_Arthur, of course, has been a kind man despite all the pain you and yours has inflicted upon his family, and is willing to overlook the unapproved leave, but—"_

"_There's a quicksand trap on the way out. Be sure to visit it."_

"_It's not that there's a hurry, but they'd just like to give the temp a time frame. It would be a shame, you know, to tell Benjamin six weeks, and then have you show up after four—"_

"_Granger!"_

_Perhaps it was the heart gripping force in his tone. Or, maybe, the hardening of his frosty grey eyes. But the most reasonable explanation for her obedient silence was his bruising hold on her neck._

"_Fuck off and die," he told her succinctly. "I don't want your pity. And concerning the Weasley and the temp, the whole lot can go to hell." With no qualms nor patience, he had forced her outside his door once more. "Chances are, I'll see you there any way."_

_If a physical threat wasn't enough to deter her—and such a thing never really did impact a Gryffindor's feeble mind—then he would be sure to emotionally maim, if only for a moment. Hermione was already ready to protest, a demand for his explanation on her lips._

"_After all," he began slowly, knowing that she would wait for an hour for his clarification. For the first time since Narcissa Malfoy shuffled off her none-too-pleasant mortal coil, Draco was beginning to enjoy himself. "Didn't you more or less kill your fiancé?"_

_She didn't return that day._

xoxox

Each morning, Draco would awaken with a growing portfolio of memories, with a growing fear to what those memories indicated.

He "loved" Hermione Granger, from what he could see. And the emotion, painfully created and even more painfully endured unrequited, had been enough to make him act outside the boundaries of reason. In hindsight, Draco could understand how it happened. Loneliness did not make him very selective in terms of friends, he supposed. And, considering the amount of trouble he had caused her, Hermione proved herself a nice girl to accept him as she did.

There was a difference between gradually falling in love with someone, and suddenly being informed that he had fallen—and still ought to be—in love with someone he had previously merely tolerated. Now that he was more aware of himself—or less aware, technically—Draco could see what in-love Draco could not.

She was not a suitable match. Mentally, and spiritually, yes, she was perfect. But what of the Malfoy line? What of the future children, whose character and social standing would be based on his and her blood? Those who didn't care about Draco Malfoy II's blood probably weren't worth his time.

Perhaps the Weasleys didn't care if their purity met an untimely end, but Draco was considerate. His father, his father's father, and so on, had spent a great deal of time making sure that the Malfoys maintained a certain pedigree. A number of them probably sacrificed their true loves along the way. It was damned reckless and selfish of him to obliterate precedence simply because he experienced an unpleasantly fuzzy feeling when it came to the subject of Hermione Granger.

Malfoy resolved to forget about her, and crossed the hall into the library to stare hard at the globe. Closing his eyes, he spun the sphere and let his finger stop it randomly. Reluctantly, he peered closer to see his future permanent home.

"The Channel?" he exclaimed in disgust, pushing the globe away. "Stupid Muggle globe."

Truthfully, it was difficult to choose a new homeland, as quite a few of them possessed citizens who hated him. His former Death Eater friends had already chosen the best hideaways, selfish bastards, and he suspected that none were too keen on the idea of sharing a tropical island with him. Of course, the Malfoys had a small number of their own islands, but those were likely confiscated by now.

What did it matter? Even he didn't care if he landed in Siberia. And there was little chance of anybody else caring either. Apparently, the only one who viewed him with a friendly eye had moved on, now taking care of two red haired babies—one newly born and one newly resurrected. Draco had no ties to cut once he chose that lucky country.

"None that I know of, any way," he muttered as he settled into a chair, picking up a book of poetry. Draco liked to spend most of his time in stable and safe positions. The sporadic and forceful natures of the flashbacks had modified his already inactive behaviour.

xoxox

_She brought a book with her today. Hermione had frolicked in, seated herself without invitation, and began to read._

_But before all this offensive behaviour began, Draco had reluctantly left his bed, prepared for the day, and then sat in his library to write responses to the condolences._

_In order to do that, however, one had to receive the condolences first. The past few days had been filled with unending boredom, quill at the ready for the briefest of missives. It was pathetic that Lucius Malfoy's death had rendered more condolences than his mother's. In Draco's private opinion, Lucius had been a bit of an ass. It was all well and good to make friends and enemies, but the imbecile had forgotten to feign friendships with his enemies, leaving him no ally at the very end._

_Narcissa had at least been nice. In his entire life time, Draco could remember maybe one or two instances during which she raised her voice at him. And she was polite to everybody she met, for the most part. Not like those Weasleys, who fell over themselves to let others know how happy or upset they were. Narcissa had some self respect, and respect for others, for she had written to their remaining living relatives when their spouses happened to keel over. _

"_I hope they all rot in hell," he muttered darkly, staring down at the blank parchment._

"_A simple hello would suffice."_

_He stiffened, and pivoted in his seat to find Hermione Granger in a chair at the chess table. That was where his father used to sit and trounce him soundly. When he was younger, he used to scheme to sit in that pretentious furniture, for surely that was the only reason Lucius won so quickly each time. _

_Draco faltered on his "What are you doing here?" and hesitated vocalizing his "How did you get in?" Those questions proved to be utterly beyond the comprehension of this Muggle born witch, and, frankly, he had stopped caring._

_There was a long moment during which Draco looked, nonplussed, at Hermione, and Hermione contentedly looked at her book. Upon finding that his eyes were having no affect on her, he moved his gaze to her book. He knew before reading the title that it was the awful kind, the sort that his parents forbade him from buying. She held a flimsy, paperback thing, one that obviously contained a tale too sordid for a proper hard cover._

"_We have books here," he heard a young man whinge. When Hermione lifted her amused eyes to him, Draco realised with horror that it had been him speaking so petulantly._

"_Yes, Draco, I gathered—"_

"_I meant," he cut in, turning back to face his writing desk, "that it's rude to show up, uninvited, in another's library, only to snub his books by bringing one of your own crap literature."_

"_World records are not crap literature!" Hermione protested immediately, pointedly ignoring his main complaint._

"_Pardon?"_

_She held up the gaudy, metallic coloured book, and waved it impatiently. "The Guinness Book of World Records. There's a new one every year."_

"_Why must this book be revised every year? It sounds like rather faulty journalism if you ask me."_

"_Because world records are broken every year," she explained calmly, taking up the statistics once more. "You know…one year a man will eat five hundred kidney pies in one sitting and the next a woman will eat five hundred and one. That sort of thing."_

_He stared, speechless. "I take it these are Muggle endeavors," he said when he found his voice._

_It had been intended as an insult, but Hermione refused to find offense. "Well, of course. Wizards would cheat, no doubt."_

"_That is a rude generalization—" he began, and remembered that he was arguing about kidney pie eating contests. "Never mind."_

_The more attention he paid to her, the more she took to the idea that she was safe from his ire. It was the same attitude his parents warned him about when interacting with the prisoners in the dungeons. _

_Just so he would not appear the total fool before her, Draco picked up his quill and soon the sound of furious scribbling began to fill the silence. _

Dear underbred rotter who had not sent your commiseration for my mother's death,

Thank you so much, you little tosser. No doubt your life had been improved by the acquaintance with Narcissa Malfoy, and this is how you repay the good deed? Arse. I don't give a damn if she went mad towards the end there; she was still a lady of good breeding and family. Bugger. With such ill blood, I have no doubt that the art of letter writing has faded from your life. Ponce. Still, it does not take much exhausting mental exercise to show up to a god damned funeral, now, does it? Coc

"_Oh that's terrible!"_

_His hand paused, which was all for the better, for his literary fury had been making his fingers ache. Draco stood and turned towards her, ready to release a verbal lashing for daring to read his private letter, when he realised that, unless she had amazing eyesight, Granger had not been peeking over his shoulder. _

_From where she sat, she held up the open book towards him, pointing to a small picture. Clearly, she expected him to come closer or simply look from his distance. He grudgingly stood and took a few steps forward, but stopped half way, just to let her know she had no authority over him whatsoever._

"_Twenty nine children! In thirty years! I'd never allow that."_

_He scowled, and returned to his desk. That wasn't worth getting up for. Hell, that wasn't worth reading. Irritated, he reached for a new piece of parchment, for the sake of appearing busy and important._

Dear Sir or madam or both or neither, considering that anybody who did not have the common decency to send a condolence letter must be a perfect freak of nature—

"_I mean, they must have been falling out while she was barefoot and pregnant, chained to the kitchen stove—"_

I am stuck in my library with a woman who does not know how to heed "No Trespassing" signs

_Draco knew that no such signs were explicitly put around the Malfoy property, but really, the sheer appearance of the place was enough to imply the warning. Any idiot gazing at the foreboding pile of stones would understand the silent message: "Do not come here unless you have received an invitation to do so… and even then, mate, weigh the pros and cons."_

And nor does she realise that her presence is not easing my mourning period. In fact, her presence is forcing me to reconsider my No More Murders Policy, suggested by the wankers at the Ministry, none of whom bothered to spout an "I'm sorry" about my mum. No doubt that Tonks trollop verily pushed Narcissa off the cliff, for my mother never even liked Dover. Come to think of it, my mother didn't like most places where many Muggles were, so to say that she had traveled there of her own mad free will is absurd. There's a conspiracy in this, no doubt, to drive me mad

"_The most I'd allow is two. Or three. Four is definitely pushing it—"_

"_What do you mean, you'd allow?" he demanded, turning in his seat again. This question destroyed his earlier silent vow of never speaking to the big haired loon again, but the certainty in her voice irked him._

"_I mean that I'd place a limit after a while."_

"_It's not your decision," he exclaimed scornfully._

"_Considering that it will be my body housing a foreign creature for nine months, I beg to differ."_

"_Beg all you want," Draco scoffed. "The father does have some say in the matter, you know." His own father had only wanted one, so there would be no quarreling about inheritances. None of that "heir and a spare" business, for Malfoy males were supposedly very hardy. "Besides, it's selfish. Suppose the best number for a family is five children? You're not willing to accommodate that number because of your own selfish comfort?"_

"_Give me one example in which five children is good for the family," she laughed in surprise._

_He shrugged. Draco knew he found the castle crowded with one or two house elves present, so he knew nothing about the loneliness of childhood. "It happens."_

"_Amongst the peasants, you mean?" she asked dryly._

"_You would be more familiar with their habits," he stated coolly. She was treating the debate as a joke; he was genuinely annoyed. Condescending witch._

_That made her furrow her brow, and Draco returned to the task at hand. When he felt her eyes remain on his hunched figure, he attempted to ignore the drilling feeling. It proved impossible, however, after a few minutes, and he abandoned the quill._

"_I don't understand why you look at me so," he said, addressing the wall before him instead of turning around to face her. "I didn't invite you, and surely even you aren't stupid enough to expect good treatment in my home, and in these times. If your feelings are hurt, then it is your own fault."_

"_We were friends once, Draco."_

"_Not any more."_

"_Why not?"_

"_Don't be obtuse. You know why not."_

xoxox

He had been rather sick of it all by this point. Malfoy had even lost count of the days. Life had lately consisted of vowing to never return to the hateful Muggles' house, starving to the brink of loud abdominal noises, eating at the Muggles' house, and then reinforcing his vow to never return.

Every once in a while, however, the monotony was interrupted by Hermione. Not the person, physically, but the remaining hints of her existence in the closed, cramped house. It still shocked him beyond words that he could traverse the length of the house in the time it took to pick some stubborn lint off his sleeve, but he had grown relatively used to it. The less annoying Muggle had been willing to see to the plumbing and other necessities when Draco allowed him to haul off a piece of god awful sculpture of a bird. It truly was a hideous creation ever carved, a massive waste of a tree, and Malfoy had no idea why Hermione had ever let it cross the threshold.

He did have some idea, though, that it was worth more than the Muggle hinted, for the next time he conveniently forgot The Vow of No Return, it had been placed under a glass case on the fireplace mantel. Muggles, Draco had thought with a roll of his eyes. No accounting for taste.

The boredom of waiting and plotting his next move—which was surprisingly difficult without magic, money, or motivation—had been eased by the Grangers' literature. Hermione's room had been full of things that made him laugh, until they actually started to make sense. Then he had thrown the books on equality, integrity, and anti-crystallization down in a huff. Her parents' room held boxes of books about the mouth, which happened to be one of Draco's favourite features on a girl. The list of disgusting things that was carried or caused by a neglectful person made Draco abandon that attempt. He also spent a few moments wondering about the girls he had known, and if they had the good sense to brush before anything important was done.

The universe must have been feeling a bit dreadful for its poor treatment of the last Malfoy on earth, for after some exploration in the attic, Draco found Hermione's diaries. It was raining, providing a constant, pleasant hum on the roof above him as he opened one small book.

She was a loquacious one, that was certain. Draco had been bored to tears by the long entries about her latest devoured book, her latest easy exam, her latest dentist appointment. It was as if she had been born to kill any sort of fun a child could possibly have. She was the anti-child, Draco decided as he perused a particularly long entry about an insect, which nine year old Hermione had found fascinating. This insect had been discovered as she walked back from the park, where she had read.

"Who reads in a park?" he wanted to know in annoyance. Draco had never personally visited a public park, but he knew what children did there. Ran around like drunken little monkeys, shouting as if their ape-ears had stopped working, and generally making jovial nuisances of themselves. No child went there to read a book.

Still, he supposed as he continued to leaf through the yellowed pages, one needed other little monkeys to disturb the peace. It didn't appear as if little Hermione had many child hood friends. There was a boy named William who had unaccountably had a fetish for smelling her hair, which, in turn, made Draco inexplicably wish to cut the boy's nose off. Technically, that didn't count as a friend either.

Hermione had labeled the spines of the plain books, arrogant creature that she was, with the flawed idea that somebody would need such guidance to read them. As if _anybody_ would be desperate enough to read about the mundane life of one little Muggle born witch. Draco rolled his eyes at his friend's audacity as he picked up the next volume.

And immediately regretted it. Whole paragraphs, pages, even chapters devoted to those two "delightful" yet "wayward" boys named Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. Although she had impressed the entire school with her intelligence in her very first year, Draco discovered that she was a veritable moron. She had spent an appalling amount of time wavering between childish and ill-conceived affections for Harry or Ron. Of all the boys in the school, she chose those two to be her oblivious objects of affection? Really. There was a hint, however, that she was doing so because that was what a girl her age ought to have done, and not because she truly liked either. It really was a good thing that, by the end of the year, she had decided neither of them would really be fitting as her future husband, as Lockhart was proving to be more worthy.

Every once in a while, his name would appear in the neatly penned lines. She never wrote anything flattering of him, Draco noticed. In fact, unmentionable words started replacing his name whenever an altercation was recorded. Hermione also wished that the twins had done him some sort of permanent bodily harm. Any description pertaining to him and his lot was never fit for civilised eyes, causing Draco to wonder why she hadn't been placed in a less noble house.

No guilt pinched at him as he idly leafed through the pages. Clearly, his amusement at her expense had never caused long lasting damage, and Granger had more important things to think about her second and third year. Draco was a bit miffed that one of his most humiliating experiences in his life time had only been written as, "I slapped Draco Malfoy the other day," followed by an obscenely large smiley face, but other than that, he did not care.

As he read through his friend's most private thoughts and wonderings, Draco mused that perhaps, London was not such a dangerous place to stay. Not if she was as loyal to her companions as she claimed. Even when the evidence against Harry proved nearly undeniable, and even when Ron's cutting words nearly drew blood, Hermione never wavered in her friendship. So…if one old friend needed shelter from the government, perhaps she wouldn't adhere to the laws…

The diaries stopped after her sixth year summer, and he was not especially interested in that information any way. Weasley had managed to decrease his blindness somewhat, and had finally taken some initiative when it came to romancing Hermione Granger. Draco knew that meals were hard to come by these days; he wasn't about to risk throwing one up.

He couldn't help but smirk at the thought of the idiotic Ministry searching for him, while he sat under the protection of one of their favourite heroines.

The last time Draco checked, the search for him had been concentrated in Eastern European countries, and so the idea of returning to town was even more supported. There was always a chance it was a ruse to lure him back to London, but, considering the torture of the past few days, Malfoy was willing to take that chance.

Satisfied by finally making a decision, Draco stood and ambled down stairs to take a nap in Hermione's bed. There was no hurry. What was the danger of letting her wait a while longer?

xoxox

"_Why do you wait? Is the halo undeserved then? Are you so petty about my childish pranks that you want to see me suffer? Is that it, Granger, is that why you come every single day, waiting for me to break?"_

"_No."_

"_Then why, damn it, why is it so important for you to be here when I fall?"_

"_Because…" He had never imagined she could appear so belatedly delicate, reminding him of when mother used to handle the sad remnants of broken heirlooms…_

"_Because," she said again with a hopeless laugh, shrugging her shoulders. "There wasn't anybody there for me, Draco. And look, just look. A year, and my wound's still bleeding. A year, and I still wake up expecting him to be there."_

"_Potter—"_

"_Did not want to speak of it." Her brow furrowed, remembering the frosty memories. "Not with the same cruelty you use now…just… It was how he dealt with it, but it was not the way for me. I couldn't leave the castle, I had no other close friends to speak of… I needed to spill my hurt to some one, Draco, and I had nothing."_

"_Ginny might have—"_

"_Yes, she might have helped. But I didn't want to find out, because, oh god, pity is worse than apathy. I did what you're doing, what Harry did. But it's not safe, Draco, it's not safe to let it eat you up inside—at least, not alone. Every night since the war's ended, I've cried and cried and nothing eases the pain. I've made a habit of being unhappy, and I can't kill it. I've tried and it's horrible because it just gets tighter and I can't breathe, Draco. I'm angry at him for ever causing this hurt and then I'm angry at myself for thinking such thoughts—"_

_He kissed her._

_Not because she was particularly attractive with salty rivers flowing from her eyes. And not because her palpable pain had stirred a renewed sense of compassion within him. He kissed her because that anguishing fire she was describing frightened him. Draco was terrified by the exact descriptions of his own bewildering agony, and he had to stop her. He could have struck her—should have struck her—but that would only add to their pain and he didn't want to increase it, he just wanted ..._

"_Make it stop," he begged against her mouth, wondering when and how the tears fell from his own eyes. "Make it stop."_

_Heartless, useless family. They gave him everything except qualities, taught him everything except wisdom. How could they? How could they prepare him for everything except for their deaths? Their ends were the only certain things in life, and yet they hadn't told him, hadn't told him where the food was in the kitchen or how to build a bloody fire when he was cold, or what to do when he sat there at the table, eating alone for the first time in his life. _

_And yes, his father was a conniving bastard, but Lucius was the only type of father Draco had ever known, and god damn it he missed him. Maybe it was sick to miss that prick who constantly criticised him, but it was that criticism that made him the man he was today. And it was Lucius' cold soul that had provided for everything in his life, so where the hell was his capable iciness when he needed it?_

_Draco couldn't possibly emulate it. No, Lucius had achieved such Machiavellian skills over time. The son had barely left school when he became the head of the hollow household. _

_Hermione might have fought the kiss, but Draco's mind never registered any resistance. For some reason, while his spirit bled rivers of pain, it was comforting to know somebody else was inwardly dying as well. He _had_ to press against her, _had_ to bruise her lips, if only make sure she stayed in this hell with him. Malfoy hated these falsely light conversations of hers, and welcomed this crying, furious girl. _

_She was right. There was nobody else who could understand what they were feeling. For while the others had others, Draco only had his blood and Hermione only had Ron Weasley. How could one move on in the world if that world was gone?_

_And Narcissa Malfoy was a stupid, painted whore, but at least she cared. Draco could not deduce any specific benefit she might have gained from tending his wounds when a servant could have, and from kissing him when Lucius disdainfully disapproved. It must have been affection, for she hadn't risked Lucius' anger for anything else than her son's well being. It must have been something more than raising an heir._

_He was never deprived as a child, which made stark deprivation so cutting now. _

"_Stop it Draco."_

_She might have said the words, but she was kissing him back. Desperately, as if searching for something just beyond her reach. In his heart, he knew she'd never find whatever gentleness Ron Weasley might have held, but Draco did not care to discourage her, cupping her face roughly as he deepened the kiss._

"_Draco, don't—"_

_Oh god, it was hell being alone. Hermione Granger had made it look so easy these past few months that he had assumed it was a capability to be learned over time. Draco relished the fact that, all the while he suffered silently, she had to suffer with a cheerful mask on._

_The castle was too large, but the library was small enough when she was in it._

"_Malfoy!"_

_Only when he stared down at her through tear blurred eyes did he realise he had been slapped._

_Granger looked at him ferociously, cheeks red with both the force of his grasp and her own embarrassment._

"_You're not kissing me," she stated furiously._

_He only shook his head, not knowing if he could form a sentence, let alone a witty rejoinder._

"_You're kissing the idea of me. Somebody who makes you feel. Somebody who made you realise what an emotional cripple you've been."_

"_Somebody's who's a bitch?" he asked cavalierly. He felt quite drunk. Light headed and ready to laugh or cry in a few moments. Draco suspected this new feeling was due to his recent epiphany._

"_Somebody who's a friend. We were friends, Draco, and we will be again. But you can't kiss friends."_

_And that was it. That was the epiphany. Draco didn't want to be her friend. Oh, he had always known that. But—_

xoxox

Draco lay in bed a long while after the memory had let him escape slumber. He stared at Hermione's ceiling. It was poor quality, compared to what he had grown up with, and chipping. He had fallen in love with a girl who was raised in this ugly house.

For that was the moment. It was in that memory that Draco was lost. Replaying each detail in his mind, Malfoy laid in bed and honed in on the very second at which Draco Malfoy became Hermione Granger's forever.

And all it had taken was one kiss.

At first it had been friendship, mistaken for love for lack of experience. Then it turned into infatuation, something his pride was unwilling to recognise for anything other than the determination to win. To prove a point.

And then…Draco shook his head, rubbing his eyes in frustration. And then she just became so necessary. Without having noticed it, Hermione made herself absolutely indispensable. All the time when he naively believed that _he_ had been doing _her_ favours by keeping her company and hearing her frustrations and maintaining witty conversation…_she_ had been saving _him_.

God damn it.

He wanted to move, but wasn't sure what he would do after he did get up.

"My god," he muttered, a migraine knocking in his temples. "In love."

And to think! He had barely grasped the idea of becoming good friends with her. This was…it had never occurred to him…Hermione Granger. She was Hermione Granger. That was reason enough to avoid any sort of dangerous emotions…like friendship…loyalty…lo—

"It's not as if she's a bad person," he reasoned to the empty air. "It's just that—she's—"

Hermione Granger. While she had the right qualities one wanted in a friend, she was simply not appropriate as a wife, nor as a mistress. He could not have her for a wife, for obvious reasons he had previously reviewed. And nor could she be a mistress, for Hermione would never accept the proposal, and it was always best policy to be emotionally detached from one's mistress; otherwise, it was ever such a tangle.

"Tangle," he muttered under his breath. "Definition…this situation right now."

Maybe that was why it was dangerous to fall in love with Mudbloods. They were addictive. They were sweet, in their stupid, blissful way. And they had big hair and buck teeth, and what irresponsible man passed those traits onto unsuspecting future children?

Crap. Life was hard enough if one was the orphaned son of two terrible parents. _Out of the dozens of girls out of the world worthy of a Malfoy, you just had to fall in love with the wrong one, didn't you? _Draco reprimanded himself sternly.

He sprang to his feet, pacing the pitiful length of the room. Something must have happened, for she was quite happy without him. Had they quarreled? Did she reject him once more? Or was the last memory, her forceful refusal of him, the one that ended their possible romance? She had sent him such wistful looks sometimes, during the last time they were confined at Number Twelve. But why? Pity, for his unrequited love, or pity for hers?

For the first time since they began plaguing him, Draco wished for more flashbacks. He had to know what had caused their rift. He had to know how they had dealt with the awkwardness after every single attempt at flawed romance. At some point or other, Harry must have interfered, for Draco could sense he did not wish to leave them alone for very long.

And Potter's past interference had been erased by his latest interference. And whatever Potter had forced him to forget, it would have motivated Draco to keep Ron Weasley dead forever and ever.

Well, aside from falling in love with Hermione. But, really, if that had been settled long before the possibility of Weasley's return—and it had to have been settled, for Hermione had given birth to a red haired man's son—then it shouldn't have made a difference to Draco if the Weasleys regained one more brat. So why…?

In short, Draco was confused.

Apparently, he had been the worst sort of suitor, insistent and unsubtle. Even more apparently, she had been the worst sort of rejecters, consistent and gentle. It felt like complete crap to be yelling at somebody who didn't want to hurt you at all. He wished she had been unreasonably cruel, to make his snappish mood seem a little justified.

But that did not explain their relationship now. If it simply consisted the broken hearted and heart breaker, there would not be such a wistful, jagged tension between them since they last spoke. Hermione would sometimes look so frustrated that she wanted to kill him. Other times, she was bewilderingly patient with his memory lapses, almost…almost empathetic really.

xoxox

_Things had been awkward since the visit to Ickham, and they hadn't been very much improved by her unwelcome visits to his home after Narcissa's Loveless Leap from Life._

_Draco had decided to name it that, because Hermione said that, sometimes, people dealt with grief through humour. She had been appalled by his endeavour, however, and so he only used the alliteration for his mother's suicide when he wished to distract her from his mistakes. And when she was being so damn generous despite his rotten behaviour and ability to make her feel incredibly uncomfortable, Draco made plenty of mistakes._

_Like kissing her, for example. Not even an "Oops, it was slippery right there and I accidentally fell on your lips," sort of kiss. It was not a dare, not an experiment, and not a small token between friends. It was more of a wonderful disaster, one that made him smile but sent her into a fury._

_And so he asked her when she came again, asked outright and without any fear. "Do you suppose you'll ever love me, somewhere down the road?" If any other fool had said it, it might have sounded pathetic. But it was Draco Malfoy who issued the question, and so Hermione regarded it like a regal inquiry. They stood at the threshold of his home, for he hadn't bothered with pleasantries. He never had before, not when it came to her. And she had made it quite clear the other day that she did not care very much for his feelings either._

"_No," she had said truthfully, with as much regret as he felt. _

"_Why?"_

_It was the question that the world would be asking soon, or later, when she was still alone and all her friends had found happiness after The Dark Year. Why did she refuse to move on, when that was not what Ron Weasley would have wanted for her?_

_And she told him a secret, one that she had told him during the war, when whispered secrets were the only thing to drown out the crying of the others. It was the same secret that they idly spoke of over brunch in the strange, detached joy after Potter's victory and disappearance. The strange, hopeful half truth that he had thrown in her face when they were supposed to be cleaning up the Granger house. It had been terribly hypocritical of her to call him delusional when she was incapable of fully grasping reality._

"_I still…feel him, Draco. He's not living, I know that. But…he's not dead either. And so it makes it feel so utterly wrong to even try something else—"_

"_You're mad!" he exclaimed, disgusted and disheartened. Draco's hands clenched, for they were itching to grab her and shake her. To push her out of his home and his sight forever. To hold her and never let her go._

"_My god, Granger, just let the bloody boy go! No, wait, you know what? I wish you were mad, because that would be easier! For months you've been telling me this, and I'm starting believe that you think it's actually true. At first I thought it was an underlying fear of venturing back into romance, thus the convenient excuse of the lack of closure—but god damn it, you're impossible! He's dead."_

"_He's not," she roared back, tears in her eyes. At the end of every serious conversation they had, Draco reflected, she always had tears. Not a good sign. "And, you know what, Draco? Even if he was, I could not love you. You're selfish, and spoiled, totally incapable of compromise. If by some miracle, you did change your ways, it would only be to gain something you want. You're not even grieving your mother, but only the loss of benefits from her existence!"_

_She had paused to catch her breath, and the beat of silence somehow echoed the words back to her. When Hermione finally did have enough air to continue her tirade, she chose to say simply, "I'm sorry. That was unkind."_

"_Truthful," he corrected despondently._

_She did not contradict him. "True or not, it was not nice to say it like that." She glanced about the empty hall unsteadily, and finally offered him a hand. "Good bye, Draco Malfoy."_

"_Why do you say it like that?" he asked suspiciously, even as he reciprocated her firm grip. "As if it's forever?"_

"_Because it is forever." There was heart broken note in her laugh, and he suspected it was supposed to comfort herself rather than him. "It's so…interesting, Draco, having you as a friend—but I can't, not any more."_

_He tightened his grip, refusing to let her go as she gently attempted to withdraw. "Because of one row?" he asked, with a desperately persuasive smile. "A tad dramatic, aren't we, Granger?"_

"_Because of this row," she agreed earnestly, "and the past rows, and the all the ones that will take place as long at two things remain constant: I will always feel for Ron the way that you will always feel for me. You refuse to change that, don't you?"_

_He dropped her hand. Hermione, without her anchor, was free to go. But she lingered, the contrary bitch, she lingered to make sure he didn't commit a Loveless Leap himself._

"_I'll still be cordial, Draco," she assured him pleadingly as he turned away from her. On the small table by the door sat a letter to a person who hadn't written him a condolence letter, just as unfinished as it had been since her first visit. "I won't be cold, whenever we happen to meet. It's just that it's no use trying to come here and comfort you when all I do is manage to—"_

"_Good bye, Hermione," he interrupted over his shoulder, taking up the envelope. "I'll see you later." It was more of a command than a good bye, and so she said nothing as she left the impressive, empty home. He hadn't really expected her to go back on her word any way, and yet he set tea for two the next day, just in case. It was after the third day that he decided to change one of the two constant factors._

_And so, a few days later, Draco found himself hiding like a petty criminal, waiting for her to fly by. There was so much at stake here, all for her. If Draco could step back from the situation, he would have realised the futility of this grand, mad gesture. And he would still risk it._

_He hadn't counted on the youngest Weasley tagging along. He hadn't expected the length of her unconscious condition. He hadn't tested the stolen magic, he had no idea if he could accomplish it without harming her or him, and it was hell doing all of this just to get her to simply like him._

_It might have crossed his mind that this was slightly wrong. Tiny flickers here and there about how forced love was not love at all and all that rubbish. But, mostly, Draco had already rationalised his decision too solidly to pay those brushes of conscience any attention._

_So when he drew her blood, it was for the best. When he winced at the pain of spilling his own, he told himself some sacrifices had to be made for the greater good. And when she had first opened her eyes, completely lost and disoriented but able to love him…it made it all worthwhile._

xoxox

"Oh…"

It was a sound of surprise. Shock and dismay seized him, leaving him chilled and still. He opened his eyes and frowned.

"Oh…no."

It was a sound of protest. Draco did not believe it. He couldn't have done that, couldn't have committed such a thing—

"It doesn't make any sense," he told his reflection in her mirror desperately. "I mean…no way."

It must have been a dream. A person was still allowed to have dreams while being pestered with flashbacks. He must have been thinking of what Potter had done to him, and that heinous act influenced and twisted his memory. That was all.

_That is not all_, an insidious whisper echoed in his mind.

Those wistful glances were composed by his hand, then. Those smiles, more than friendship but less than love, were his creation.

But that wasn't right. Draco frowned, picking at the lint on Mr. Granger's sweater. Had anybody been able to see him, they would have found his face to be one of childish concentration, focusing on anything than the important matters.

It wasn't right because he had respected her before the events of that memory. And he wouldn't have done that to somebody he respected. He wouldn't have twisted and ripped at a mind he loved so much—

He couldn't have done that to Hermione. Besides the stupidity of the idea, it was also damned heartless of him. If he had done that what Potter had probably done to him…

It meant that she was right about him. He was selfish. He was spoiled. And he was totally, insanely incapable of compromise.

"I couldn't—I wouldn't. Ever," he told himself.

Oh god, to have hurt her! For _his_ sake? To have her weep and bleed for _his_ agenda?

"It wasn't me," he said in a small voice.

It was a grieving Draco who made those cruel decisions. A Draco who was beyond the boundaries of logic and affection. He wasn't himself then. He had lost his mother, and then his heart all in such a short period of time…of course he wasn't himself, of course he would ignore all reason…

_And she doubted herself, mistrusted her own mind, because I did that, I made her forget herself—_

Now this was the irony of ironies. Harry Potter must have had a grand old time relishing the fair play of turnabout. He was a sanctimonious prat, judging who should be punished and in what manner. If not for the dreaded feeling that this retribution was richly deserved, Draco would have hated him even more.

"I swear," he said emptily, "I wouldn't do it again." Draco closed his eyes, unable to look at the broken, pale man in the mirror.

_I never meant to hurt her._

How often had Hermione said those words, "never meant to?" Each time she apologised for accidentally doing this and unintentionally doing that, Draco had scoffed. For nobody could break hearts so effectively and be unaware of it. Nobody could cause so much pain and think that she was doing it for the best.

He had never understood until now. In romance, Hermione had been clumsy. In the same field, Draco was recklessly dangerous.

_I just wanted to—to have her._

And he did have her, in small episodes of short lived bliss. He had her, and it was never satisfying, for it never lasted. More importantly, it was never real. It had been like starving for days on end, only to receive sugary nothings when relief finally came.

_I have to fix this._

But the problem was quite fixed. Miraculously, Hermione had pulled her life together, without him. A life without Draco Malfoy—that was the thing she needed the most.

Draco knew this, without a doubt. It would do no good for him to return. If any thing, it would cause her more grief.

And then he reflected that it was a good thing he was leaving Ickham, for the environment was causing his own mind to turn on him. One only had to look next door to discover the long term effects of staying in the small town.

Was it selfish, to go to her and disrupt her life once more? Undoubtedly. Was it mad, to expect a welcome after what he had—what he might have done to her? Yes, arrogantly so.

But would it have been worth it, to somehow win her respect genuinely, and to hold her for the rest of their lives?

Without question. Draco would not have bothered at all if not for his firm belief that Hermione felt some sincere affection for him. True, Ronald Weasley was back. But they were not together, and that meant something. All those silly reports and idle rumours he had heard on the network never mentioned anything of them doing activities together. Malfoy knew that Hermione must have been feeling some hesitation, caused by her wonderings of the madly devoted one who had kidnapped her for months on end.

"You're going?" the old man asked with just a tinge of regret when Draco finally told him.

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Back to Hermione." He could have said London, could have given the man a lie just in case the Aurors somehow caught wind of his stay and decided to interrogate the natives. But the truth slipped out and Draco felt no need to correct himself. He was going back to Hermione, whether she was in the City or in the country. He had to find her, to keep the madness away.

"I thought you were going to improve the house?"

They stood by the hedges, the top of which were evenly trimmed, on both sides of the property line. Malfoy was pleased by this, as he hadn't even asked the Muggle man to take care of the landscaping. He supposed it was a token of friendship.

Draco turned and observed the small, shabby thing against the dark grey sky. "What's the point?" he asked him, so dismally he feared the words would be lost to the winds. And he did so hate to repeat himself.

"Yes," the other agreed, uncharacteristically understanding. "For who would live there again?"

"Who could," Draco corrected. There was difference between the will and the ability. And considering the painful memories the house held, Malfoy doubted Hermione had either.

"When do you leave?"

The old creature actually sounded a bit pensive. Oddly enough, Draco was not disgusted by the Muggle's attachment. It was not surprising, really, that anybody should miss him after making his acquaintance. But he had seen this man's life and understood what a new thing, a new anything, meant to such a dreary existence.

"In an hour." He had actually meant to leave tomorrow, after a few good meals. But, by the looks of things, it appeared that the sooner he began, the better.

"Do you have transportation?"

Draco thought of the metal antique sitting in the neighbor's garage, and decided it would be a pity to be literally caught dead in it. "I'll get my own way."

"Oh."

This was getting ridiculous. Draco stepped away from the hedges, feeling a bit awkward. It wasn't as if they really liked each other.

"Look old man," Draco sighed, offering his hand. "I don't remember your name, but I appreciate your usefulness these past few weeks."

He looked slightly offended, but shook his hand in any case. It was a good decision, for Draco did not take kindly to being snubbed by any one, let alone a Muggle.

"If you're ever back in town—" Yates called as Draco strode back into the house, intending to retrieve Potter's cloak.

"I'll try to avoid your wife," Draco finished without remorse, and smirked to hear the ancient laughing.

Draco left the way he came. Underneath a cloak he was seriously beginning to loathe, he walked to a more populated part of town, and caught a tour bus to Canterbury. Once there, he began the ridiculously long trek back to the forest, which he now knew to be The Blean. Although it was cold, wet, and just as miserable as it had been the night he arrived, Draco did not mind the journey so much. Physical discomfort paled in comparison to the painful confusion in his mind.

He thought of Hermione as he searched for the broom. It was surprisingly difficult to find a tied bunch of flying brown sticks in the middle of the woods. He only brought one thing with him from the house, and, now that he thought about it, it might have been wiser to bring something edible. Malfoy smiled. What would Hermione say if he brought her World Records book, half chewed?

"_I have plenty of friends, in case you haven't noticed. I have loads. It's you I'm worried about."_

Well, she wouldn't say _that_ in response, because she had already said it, according to his distorted mind. And, really, that hurt. She didn't have to say it so violently, and so arrogantly. He knew she was loved. There was no need to emphasize how unnecessary he was.

Besides, _she_ was the one who told him that their friendship was special. _She_ was the one who sought him out, convinced him that they needed each other if they were going to stay sane. It was exceedingly unfair to give him such status, and then tell him that he was to treat her as if she was nothing but just another friend. _Spiteful little strumpet_, he thought now, with affection. If somebody had done everything Hermione had done to him, but deliberately, he would have admired the cunning. But Hermione had accomplished everything by instinct and then caution, and so he could not blame her. He could only love her, a little bit.

Draco tripped, and her book fell out of his hand and into the mud. He was ready to break the offending stick over his knee when he noticed it was Potter's broom. Malfoy considered breaking it out of sheer spite instead of revenge, but thought better of it. The ride would air out the pages.

He thought of Harry as he flew in, what he hoped to be, the general direction of London.

He could have taken his hand. Life would have been very different if Harry Potter had simply taken his hand. Potter really had no idea what sort of monumental effort Draco had just made when he offered his friendship when they were young. For somebody who summoned immense effort to answer his mum's "Good morning," striking up a friendship with an unknown wizard with questionable blood nearly meant causing a hernia. But, no. Harry Potter had been ignorantly unappreciative of his exertion. Bastard.

But… Draco sighed against the wind. He could do with Potter's friendship now. As much as he loved—if that was the right word, considering how much he had mistreated her—Hermione, she was not as influential as Potter. The tosser could have disappeared for ten years and still come back with more sway than his sidekicks. There were benefits like that when one saved the world.

It was too cold to ride through the night, and he landed atop a flat building just after the night clouds swallowed the sun. In such temperature, it wasn't wise to sleep, but he had the nagging feeling the universe wouldn't so merciful as to let him die in peace.

There was another reason he wanted to avoid drifting off, besides the obvious death-by-hypothermia scenario. Lately, sleep had provided no rest.

xoxox

"_I almost don't believe it."_

_He looked up, and knew. He simply knew._

"_One would think that you're too proud for this. That you're above this."_

_Oh how her voice broke! It hadn't broken like that since they were young, back when war was fun._

"_But then I remember—Draco, why do I always forget this?"_

_It was cowardice to look away from the ice in her eyes. But it had been cowardice all along to look in them, hadn't it? To meet her gaze when he had artificially designed it?_

"_How is it that everybody but me remembers that to get what he wants, Draco Malfoy will sink to the lowest of the low? And you know this. You know that I'll overlook this. Do you know why?"_

_There was a blade in her words. It sliced him even now, even before she revealed the weapon. The only reason she aimed to cut him now was because she knew what was to come._

_Because no matter how much she berated him, mocked him, forced him to self hatred…he was simply going to subdue her or wait for her to tire. And then simply start over again._

"_Because I pity you. It's always been pity."_

_She didn't mean that. She just…didn't know it. He had to show her. He had to._

xoxox

Draco's eyes slowly opened. He sat, crouched against the roof's wall, and simply stared unseeingly at the opposite point. Vaguely, he felt bile rise in his throat, but he swallowed it hastily. It wouldn't do. It wouldn't do to be sick now, not when he had a goal.

It was worse than he imagined, for it hadn't been just _once_. Previously, Draco believed that he might have abducted her, might have tricked her, and might have manipulated just _once_, before seeing the colossal error of his mad methods.

But it was beyond madness, and beyond cruelty to see her pain and yet continue. He had violated her, mind and body, time and time again. He was numbed by the thought. Immobilised, he explored what that small glimpse meant, exactly. It meant she had every right to kill him, after a bit of torture. It meant that it was a miracle Potter and the Weasleys hadn't murdered him on the spot. It meant—

Draco scratched his head, and stretched his legs before him in slow shock. Oh god. His head was starting to hurt something terrible…

"_Why did you do it?"_

Draco fought it. He kicked at the roof top, squeezing his eyes shut as if forcing the memories away. His hands grabbed fistfuls of hair as the pounding strengthened, and he let out a guttural snarl of anguish. Something was dripping into his mouth, something familiar and vital—blood…

Hermione was asking him a question, pulling him back to that dark world where he foolishly thought exploitation was chivalry.

"_Why did you do it?" she wanted to know when she remembered after his first attempt._

"_You know why," he told her slowly, shocked by the suspicious look in her eyes._

"_I've some ideas, yes. Is it some sort of last hurrah for your lot? Look at what Draco Malfoy did. Fooled Hermione Granger, fooled her and broke her and laughed all the while—"_

"_No!"_

"_Or is it a new trend? A proof of your new status, to take up a Mudblood companion?"_

"_Hermione!"_

"_The shock factor," she pushed, tears dropping furiously from her eyes. "The sheer joy of seeing the others' faces when I, so blindly, so stupidly, kiss you. Is that why you did it Draco? Tell me why you did it."_

"_Because I love you!"_

"_Do _not_ confuse this pain with love," she roared. "Do not mistake your sick, twisted mission of winning with love. It's not love if you let me cry. It's not love if you do it again."_

The pain ebbed, and Draco's vision eventually cleared of the tortuous haze. Blood covered his mouth and chin, and his hands were clenched in white fists.

He must not have loved her, Draco reflected as he wiped the blood from his nose. For he had done it again. He knew it. The details were unknown, but Malfoy did know the kind of person he had been at the time. One who would not give up, despite his love's reasonable protests. Yes, he must have tried again.

Unapologetically, he used a handful of the cloak to staunch the blood. Draco sat, contemplating breakfast and his past. Had Hermione bled like this, because of his selfish experiments on her? Poor horrified thing. She hated messes.

It was miracle, he realised as the blood trickled to nothing, that she was still so friendly to him. Clearly, she had moved on, what with regaining Potter, starting a family, et cetera… And yet, despite her return to society, she hadn't thrown an Unforgivable his way the moment she discovered him in the upstairs spare room at Number Twelve. Perhaps the universe liked him, just a bit.

He rose unsteadily, and flew to the nearest open window—well, okay, the nearest breakable window with no apparent occupants. Quietly, he found food and drink, and returned to his roof top.

He wasn't sure if it was a good idea to return to Hermione. Clearly, he had done more harm than help when it came to the girl. By this time, Ron Weasley would have been informed of the recent events as well. Even if she forgave him, the most violent moron of the litter probably wasn't too keen on the idea of helping him.

Still, where was he to go? It would have been simply a matter of time before they thought of searching Ickham.

He could ask for some help. One last, undeserved favour. And, for any assistance, he would promise to leave her alone.

Draco frowned slightly. It rather sounded like begging.

He frowned even more. Begging was all he had left. Here he was, in borrowed clothes, on a borrowed broom, racing borrowed time. He was beginning to contemplate the very possible idea that he had died recently, and had dropped into hell. It was a comforting thought actually; the theory that none of this had ever happened. Maybe a few people even cried at the funeral.

"Stop your wishful thinking, Draco Malfoy," he sneered at himself. "Life wouldn't be kind enough to kill you."

At least it was sunny, at the moment. Things seemed better, somehow, when it was sunny.

xoxox

_Oh god, she was crying. He had braced himself for shouting, for violence, like the first time she discovered his deception…_

_But she sat in the bed, sobbing quietly. Hermione didn't even shake off his tremulous hand on her shoulder. She just…didn't care._

"_Hermione, please," he said softly, drawing the covers awkwardly around her shoulders. "Just stop crying."_

_But she wouldn't. If anything, her weeping increased, filling the empty room with her soul shaking whispers._

"_Oh god," she gasped quietly, as if soft words and near silent tears could erase what had happened. "Why did you do it? Oh, Draco, why did you do it?"_

_The room was awash in orange and black, the warmth of the fire and candlelight casting her with an ill fitting glow. _

"_I'm so sorry, love," he told her thickly, unable to answer her question. "I'll make it better." _

"_You can't," she cried, bowing her head, pulling her hands away. "There's no way."_

_But there was a way, one that meant more tears and more blood. Draco resolved for less mistakes next time. It pained him beyond words to have her remember, and then cry._

xoxox

There was that theory, produced by some heathen or other, which stated that if one thought of pain in a certain way, that which was painful became nothing like pain at all. Or something like that. Draco couldn't quite remember. He only knew that it didn't work.

His stomach hurt, from lack of food. His arms hurt, from holding this over rated aero-cleaning instrument for hours on end. His arse was positively numb, and, while that didn't hurt, surely it wasn't safe to have a numb arse? Oh yes, and he had a constant headache.

But he attempted to convince himself that he was full, relaxed, and on his way to certain safety. He only succeeded to worsen his headache.

An hour or so ago, he remembered a brief conversation between himself and Potter. It had taken place in stale, grey room, and Potter had been tremendously angry, rushed, and…scar-less. That must have been the first time that he saw the change, for he had remarked casually that the lack of lightning bolt made his head appear even larger, and Harry had threatened to hit him.

"_How do you feel about Ron Weasley?"_

"_Glad he's dead," Draco replied without hesitation._

"_Anything else?"_

_He thought about it. "I wish he were alive," he added, "so that I could have killed him."_

"_You hate him then?"_

"_God, Potter, if you had to come here and bloody ask, you've less social instincts than I thought. Now go away, for the trial has given me a fair share of arseholes in undeserved positions."_

But Harry Potter hadn't gone away. He stayed for more than an hour, and, seeing that Draco hadn't stalked off in a fit of boredom, the present day Malfoy assumed that he had been required to stay there, while the other wizard was free to go.

His heart had felt heavy—there, in that memory. Almost like a solid weight had settled in his rib cage. Potter had been a welcome distraction, but no matter how many quips were flicked at his insignificant face, the ache would not lighten. It simply worsened, drowning him from the inside.

As he soared effortlessly and steadily in the air, Draco knew that any discomfort he might remember was deserved.

"_Are you even sorry?" Potter had asked, just before he left._

_Only a little_, he thought silently now.At the time, he had replied carelessly_, "For what, exactly?" if only to send Potter away, foaming at the mouth. _

Somebody had written something a few years back. A theory or a treatise—one of those long pieces people wrote when they were miserable and tried to cover the fact with intelligence. Basically, it stated that a spell muttered by one person was always slightly different than the same exact bit of magic performed by a different person. It didn't matter if the end result was the identical—the magic, motivation, and thought had a vastly different pattern for each witch or wizard.

He was absolutely certain that the spell he had used on Hermione was not the same spell Potter had used on him. For one thing, Draco's manipulation had been trial and error—an admittedly stupid way of doing things, but ultimately effective. That last time was perfect, if not for the Aurors…and bloody Longbottom…

Potter had been more precise, sleek and cruel with his spell. The fallen hero had broken him with ambition, and a smattering of vengeance. When Harry cut him, Draco knew that he must have bit back a smile. There was malice in the good and the bad—the bad were just slightly less ashamed of the fact.

The Weasley twins, for example, were bad eggs. No way around it. They were cruel, but they were charming, and ultimately, people decided to overlook the former because of the latter. They were unapologetic when it came to their thoughtless pranks. They were violent when it came to their misguided sense of duty. Had they been born into a different family with different goals, they might have been rather decent villains.

Draco recalled a memory that had come to him during the unholy hours of morning. It had taken place after his escape from the Ministry, but before the resurrection of Ronald Weasley. One of the twins and Potter had tricked him, luring him back to England with a false note concerning Hermione's health. The owl had been on its way to Number Twelve before Draco's own owl had intercepted it, so naturally, he had assumed Hermione had relocated there after the birth of her—_their_ son.

There hadn't been any bed ridden girl awaiting him, however, but two rather angry wizards. The twin—to be honest, Draco did not know to this day which was which—had hauled him through the window even before Draco could realise the ruse. And then, without preamble, he punched him.

And punched him again.

And then switched hands, and punched him again.

And what had Harry Potter been doing while the Weasley took his frustration out on the poor, defenseless, new father? Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, being utterly bored. Every once in a while, he muttered an insincere, "No, stop, don't hurt him," but, mostly, Potter waited until Weasley tired himself out before making sure he was alive.

It was a demeaning way to be caught. Draco ranked it was one of the lowest three moments of his life. It would have been all right if Potter tried to beat the shit out of him; he almost certainly struck like a girl. The Weasley was vulgarly bulky, and had some repressed war matters.

Still, what the twin did to him was nothing compared to the pain Harry Potter caused.

xoxox

"_What are we doing here?"_

_They stood in the attic of Grimmauld Place, Number Twelve. It was a silent hour of the night, shivering with dangerous potential, and the others slept in the rooms below. Draco felt the familiar stirrings of fear, but they were stale and worn. Consequently, when Harry Potter asked to see him in the attic, he did not hesitate to follow. He swaggered, if only to keep a bit of his own, but still he followed. For some reason, the tale of Prometheus and that pesky bird came to mind, but Draco shoved the thought away in fear of showing cowardice._

_Potter had just finished a silencing spell, and Draco was ready to exclaim that, he knew it, nobody believed it, but he _knew_ that the hero secretly fancied him—_

"_Watch out now," Harry warned, with a tone of cheerful menace, "this may sting."_

_And then Draco felt massive pain that felt nothing like a sting, but quite like a knife to his heart._

_He stumbled—or tried to, but Potter caught a majority of his weight. He didn't catch him quickly enough, however, and Draco felt the strange sensation of his own body lengthening the jagged gash, as if Potter's dagger was being pulled upward. _

_But, no, Harry Potter had no time for such games. With an irksome air of distaste, Potter clumsily set him against a set of neglected furniture, creating a disturbance so forceful that they both heard the wood creak. Shocked beyond anything except his basic senses, Draco watched silently and wide eyed as a cloak of dust was lifted from a cradle he had disturbed. _God_, he thought, wanting to laugh gloomily, _that's almost pretty.

_The wizard was efficient. Without explaining, he took a plate—a plate!—and held it beneath the flowing wound._

"_Oh no," Draco loftily corrected, his voice and indignation dimmer than he expected. "My blood's not meant for that."_

"_For being spilt?" Harry asked, grimacing at the sight of Draco's torn chest. "I disagree."_

_The gall of the boy! Draco watched, frowning, as Harry then cut himself with the same dagger—though he couldn't help but notice there was no heart-kabob action—and let his own blood drip into a separate inkwell. What really peeved Draco—besides this murdering business—was the fact that Harry healed himself, healed a sodding nick to his forearm, before taking care of Malfoy's mortal injury._

"_I was the one who was stabbed, you arse!" Draco snarled as soon as he regained enough life. "Bugger your damn paper cut! I was dying!"_

"_Stop reminding me of happier times," Potter requested absently, "I'm busy." Not too busy to handicap the livid victim with a leg lock, however. Draco landed as a graceless heap to the dusty floor, and Harry did not care to catch him once more._

_There was more of Draco's blood retrieved than Harry's, and, had he not been trapped in such a bizarre situation, Malfoy might have been complimented by the fact. _

"_I've been doing this every night since you've returned. You don't remember, because I've wanted it that way. But, I'm going to let you keep your memories from tonight. And this is the last time I'll do it, so, for the next week or so, you're going to regain everything I've taken away. I used to enjoy how I've hurt you, but, if you're half the man Hermione seems to think you are, remembering ought to be more punishment than I could ever produce."_

_Draco was dumbfounded to silence. _

_Potter had gone nutters. The boy was insane and was taking people's blood without so much as a by your leave. He was, literally, a mad scientist. Malfoy knew it would eventually happen, what with the bad blood and all, but he never expected to be punished for Harry Potter's unfortunate lineage. That was just so unfair!_

"_Do you know what will happen? Because I do. I know exactly how everything will play out. You're going to forget, just as I've always made you forget, these spells and all the memories connected to your…attachment to Hermione. You're going to feel some strange, pestering emotions, because while I'm a good wizard, I'm not perfect—"_

"_Hear, hear," Draco muttered sullenly._

"_But, mostly, you'll continue being the snide arse you are until we bring Ron back tomorrow. And then, after I've washed my hands of you, the memories will come back. And I hope they hurt, Draco Malfoy, I hope they break you down. No doubt there'll be some acrobatic justification, because you're so bloody good at that, but, if you truly love her, then it'll hurt so bloody much to realise what you had done that you won't come back to London. If you have an ounce of the honour the Malfoys have been pretending to have for all these centuries, then you'll stay away. Lawrence may be yours—oh yes, it's funny to tell you this every time."_

_Draco stared hard at him, unable to utter a word as loathing blurred his vision. This was entertainment for the jackass._

"_Every time you try to not show a reaction, but you're shocked, Draco, I know you are." Potter shook his head, cruelly amused. "Possibly horrified. But, no matter who fathered Larry, Hermione will find a proper husband in Ron. If you care for her at all, you'd stay away and let her repair the bloody disaster you've caused._

"_Because if you do come back, Malfoy, and I find out before she does—I'll kill you. I promise."_

_And good little boys keep their promises._

_He watched fatalistically as Harry stood, brushed the dust off his knees, and walked back to the table. With the swiftness of one accustomed to it, Harry idly let the parchment soak in Draco's candle lit blood before dipping his quill in his own, tainted blood. _

"_What are you writing?"_

"_Fake memories. Well, no, not so much as fake memories, because I don't care that much if you're confused by huge gaps in the past. Just things to gloss over the genuine memories that matter."_

"_That matter to me, about Hermione."_

"_Yes."_

"_So I don't refuse to help with Ron Weasley's resurrection. Because I love Hermione."_

"_Wow, Malfoy, you're not half as dumb as you look. Alert the media."_

"_That…that can't be true."_

"_That you're not half as dumb as you look? I know. The mind boggles."_

"_That I love her. I don't. There's no reason—"_

"_You think there's no reason because I took away all the reasons, you moron. Good god, just when I thought you were marginally intelligent—"_

"_I do not love her! I cannot love her! She's—" Draco paused, for he had belatedly spied the growing look of anticipation on Potter's face, one that thirsted for violence._

"_What?" he asked softly._

"_Never mind."_

_Harry scoffed, and resumed his task. Draco refused to give Potter any more ammunition in his anti-Malfoy campaign. No doubt the little prat saved anything he said just to tell Hermione later, to try and make her hate him as much as she had before…_

_Draco caught himself. Even if he did not love her, his present thoughts indicated that he must care for her, a bit._

_Harry had no time for conversation, for he was now muttering Latin. Familiar Latin._

"_Hey, plagiarist!" Draco spat indignantly. "That's my spell! I came up with that! You can't use that against me—"_

_Draco had been immobilised once or twice before, but he couldn't recall the sensation being quite so painful. Perhaps the excess hurt was due to the fact that Potter had sent the hex his way with tangible malice and annoyance._

"_Now look. I have to start over. I swear, if the blood is too dry, I'm stabbing you again with no healing spells."_

_Draco couldn't protest if he wanted to._

"Falsum etiam est verum. Qui tabellis crederes."_ Moving only his eyes, Draco could spy pages and pages of blood soaked lies being held to the candle. Potter didn't even flinch as flames swiftly devoured the glowing words, sparks licking his fingers._

"Modo ei non possum meminisse… Res itast"

_Silently, Malfoy took comfort in the fact that Potter's accent was shit._

"Didicere flere… in mendacium… Res itast"

_It seemed to be a never ending amount of memories going up in smoke, and Draco was plagued with a constricting, grasping force surrounding his body._

"Vanescitque absens et res itast."

_He tried to swear, but failed. He tried to move, but, naturally, failed. Then he tried to breathe, and Draco was alarmed to find that impossible as well._

"Nemini dixeris, Impedimentum memoriae, et res itast."

_Harry Potter seemed to be immersed in the spell, but a quick darting of his eyes showed everything Draco had already suspected. He knew, somehow, that Draco was being suffocated by the magic. He knew it, and enjoyed it._

"Falsum etiam est verum. Qui tabellis crederes."

_Green, eager eyes met grey, panicked ones from across the dusty attic floor. Harry smiled. Draco wondered how one could pass out if one could not blink. _

"Tempus mentiar nuncine et res itast. Et clavo fixum est."

_The smoke of the burnt blood and parchment thickened, angry broiling clouds filling the room in a matter of moments. Oddly enough, Potter stood untouched by the grey roils of dark magic. Instead, all the dangerous fumes wafted insolently to him. They smothered him, invading his vision, his lungs, and his mind with a burning determination. It was a pain beyond anything Draco could have ever imagined._

_And yet he did not remember it the next day._

xoxox

That was the last memory he had forgotten. Now everything was complete. Now, he was whole.

Draco Malfoy did not feel better in the slightest.

For, just as Potter had foreseen, Draco did take a stab at acrobatic justification. But it was not so easy now. Before, it had been easy to say that he was saving Hermione Granger from herself. By forcing her into a new situation, he had rescued her from a deluded, lonely life. But, of course, he had been wrong, and she had been right.

Astonishingly, Ron hadn't been dead. Rudely, Weasley had come back to life. And, humiliatingly, Draco had proved that, even if the weasel _had_ been dead and Hermione ought to have found a way to move on, he certainly was not the right man for Hermione.

Logically speaking, any way.

And Draco had abandoned logic long ago when it came to Hermione Granger. For if there was any modicum of sense in him, Draco knew that he should have taken the Firebolt, stolen some money, and flown to Siberia. Instead, he was currently wandering London, without a dependable source of shelter or food. No, logic definitely had no place in his life style.

It was surprisingly easy to be a homeless wastrel in Muggle London. Then again, Draco relied heavily on wandless magic and the Invisibility Cloak. The latter was utilised more often, as he did not want any mysteries of invisible magic being reported to the Ministry. While it was impossible to gain important time with a few unsavoury characters of Knockturn Alley when under a sodding invisible sheet, it did help when it came to spying on his friends.

For the past few days, Draco had taken up espionage once more, though his quarry was easier to track this time around. It would have been unfeasible to follow Hermione's activities, for she was alarmingly active for a single mother, and had the benefits of magic to whisk her to and fro. Draco sorely wished for a moment with her. He needed her help, and she was the only one with the sentimental weakness who would aid him…

Also, he missed her. Very much. He forgot, until he saw her small, fair face from across a busy street, how necessary it was to smile at least once a week. Hermione Granger had taught him that lesson. Actually, her words had been "You can't ponder the gloominess of life for all eternity, Draco, or you'll waste away. Or worse. You'll become a poet."

He needed her. He wanted to grasp her tightly to him. She was the only warm thing in his life, the only thing worth striving for.

No, wait. Hermione wouldn't have liked that, to be the one and only anything of anybody's life. While most girls found that status flattering, she would have found it a bit pitiful and greatly frustrating. Although she was not present to chastise him, Draco mentally corrected himself.

She was the only one who could help him find other things worth striving for.

Without her, everything was so hopelessly cold. The resolution of giving her one last plea for help had dissolved almost as soon as he saw her for the first time. While it would have been honourable to abandon her to her better life, Draco selfishly decided against it. It was impossible.

And it was absolutely maddening, to see her but stay silent beneath the cloak. Also, it was damn irritating to see Potter come and go at Number Twelve, without dropping something large and murderous on the boy's large and murderous head.

That little fantasy was usually impractical to accomplish, however, as, most of the time, Harry Potter was in the company of one Lawrence Malfoy. Much as he detested Potter, he wasn't about to damage his only heir for a bit of petty revenge. There would be time for that later. Perhaps by the time Lawrence was a bit older, so that he could help his dear old dad.

The only one who did not flutter about with magically enhanced speed and who also did not want to be anywhere near Lawrence Malfoy was…

Ron Weasley.

Against his will, Draco found himself monitoring the boy's habits with unstoppable fascination. He was not at all himself—not that Draco knew his true nature to begin with. But still, Weasley made it very easy, practically begging to be stalked.

He did not use magic. For anything, apparently. Whether it was walking a mile from Number Twelve for a moment alone in the park, or fixing a cup of tea. Ron did it all by himself, with his hands and his feet and a Muggle-ish sort of determination. If he had not been distracted by the cold, his constant hunger, and the sheer wretchedness of things, Draco reckoned he would have been impressed.

It was easy enough to live without magic, as Draco's current situation showed. All one had to do was steal food when no one was looking, sleep in flats that were waiting for the next renters, and avoid the magical population in general. Really. It wasn't so hard.

Malfoy could not fathom, however, what made Ron decide to live the unholy life. Self punishment, perhaps? The good people did have an odd sense of duty when it came to loved ones.

He wondered why the others had not picked up on it. Why they hadn't noticed that Ron only used magical devices—the Floo network, for instance—but not magic itself? Granted, he had no wand, but that did not stop him from using wandless magic, even for the little things, such as food or warmth. They did not badger him to renew his Apparating license, or to replace all his magical necessities. The lot was simply allowing him to wallow in his own self pity. That was a perk, Draco guessed, of being a resurrected freak of nature.

Ron liked to stay at Number Twelve, which made things vastly easier for Draco, who did not like to walk far at all. Sometimes he would walk to the park. Other times, he ventured to the attic. If he ever traveled, to the Weasley home, Draco guessed, Weasley did so with the assistance of others, or through the fireplace.

Draco, although in possession of the Firebolt, did not follow the others when they left. There was something in Weasley's eyes that Malfoy did not like, besides his obvious love for Hermione. He was so guarded, so secretive…perhaps Draco was being paranoid, but there was a hard glint in his eyes whenever he happened to be in the company of Lawrence.

And Weasley was never in the company of Lawrence unless absolutely forced into it. Draco, although he only recently discovered his connection to the infant, found that highly suspicious. Except for the atrocious hair colour, Lawrence was a pretty attractive baby. And Malfoy had no doubt of Lawrence's exemplary behaviour, for he was the product of Hermione and himself. There was no reason for Weasley to regard the child with such ill concealed dislike.

Draco ignored the fact that, until the memories revealed his direct link to the boy, he had previously thought Lawrence a big headed triviality who cried more often than a normal baby should.

It was after a few days of observing Number Twelve that something happened. Something monumental, something that made him forget the necessary secrecy in just a heart beat.

Draco had watched Hermione arrive a little later than Weasley at Number Twelve. They were meeting Harry the Memory-Stealing Arse Potter for lunch. Lately, there had been nothing to watch, as Weasley had started to spend more time with his dozens of siblings, and Hermione was off with a new project. It sort of wounded him, how easily she filled her time with other things. Everything was patched up in her life now. The trio had mended, and the only remnant of her appalling ordeal with him was Lawrence, a child who would grow up healthy, without the influences of his father. Heedless of the danger, he crossed the street and stood outside the window, watching as they joked with each other over a disgusting amount of food.

She did not need him as much as he needed her. It had always been the case, Draco knew that. He just wished…if only…

He just thought that, even if it had been forced, even if it all had been falsehoods and trickery…she loved him back. Enough to remember him, at least.

But the stab of self pity was brief, for Hermione, in his distraction, had found a reason to leave. In fact, she was downright panicked, flurrying here and there until, finally, deciding to leave the baby with the boys. Then, without warning, she disappeared.

Ron and Harry were obviously bewildered by her sudden exit. They spoke with uncertain urgency, with Potter pacing about the table and Weasley twisting and turning to speak to him. They looked as if they wished to solve Hermione's unknown problem, and, when one considered their combined intelligence, it was clear that they would be thinking for quite some time.

Draco could only hear muffled noises, and only when either of them spoke especially loudly. He heard a noise emitted from the baby carriage well enough, and was momentarily pleased with the child's lungs. Quickly, he observed the pair's reaction.

Harry Potter immediately forgot the present predicament and rushed to where Lawrence lay. Grudgingly, Draco admitted that he was an attentive, if not asinine, godfather. Later, when they had a chance to speak, Malfoy planned on giving Hermione a long lecture about Potter as the choice, but, at the moment, Draco had no complaints.

Ron Weasley, however, was less than concerned. With a wooden expression, he watched as Harry scooped up the child, embracing it with more care than Draco ever thought possible. Then, without a hint of immaturity or disgust, Potter checked Lawrence's tiny nappy.

Malfoy made a face, hoping he would not be required to check for such things, when the time came. Thankfully, Lawrence did not need changing, and so Potter rocked his son back to sleep, all the while tossing instructions at Weasley.

They really were an idiotic pair. Apparently, the pram converted into something better. They just had trouble figuring out what.

Potter knew, but could not assemble it because of the baby. And Weasley, because he was immature and hateful, refused to take the burden off his hands.

Then, to Draco's flabbergasted horror, Ron Weasley reached for Harry Potter's crotch.

Oh… no, he was just reaching for his pocket. Still, that sort of intimacy shouldn't have been conducted around his son.

To his credit, Ron Weasley looked just as repulsed by the contact as Draco felt, for he quickly darted his hand in and then pulled it out as if on fire. Then, under Harry's instructions, pressed a button on the little gadget and held it to Potter's ear.

The wizard's face went from concerned to murderous. After only a few seconds of conversation, he thrust Lawrence into Weasley's arms, muttered some terse words, and then left as well.

Left Weasley. Alone. With Lawrence.

Draco was furious. He was utterly livid that the boy's godfather would be so irresponsible. For god's sake, the boy had just returned from the dead. He probably couldn't relieve himself without great concentration. What the bloody hell did he know about looking after a baby?

Not much, judging by Weasley's terrified expression. As soon as he gathered his wits, he lowered Lawrence back into the pram. Draco's hands itched to open the window, for he wanted to order the maggot's hands off his child. The unnatural, undead boy had no business touching a Malfoy heir.

Unable to concentrate on food, and clearly unable to help the other two, Ron Weasley did not stay in the kitchen long. The boy wandered out of the room before remembering himself, and coming back for the baby. Draco moved to a different window for a better view, which showed the weasel confusedly regarding the stairs and the stroller for quite a while. With a grimace, Ron fearfully held Lawrence while he ascended, and Draco was forced to retrieve the Firebolt from the last vacant flat to conduct his vigilance from a second story window.

He had placed Lawrence in an ancient looking cradle, placed in Hermione's old room. Then, to Draco's fury, the boy actually left the child for a quick trip to the attic. Weasley had run back as fast as possible, but still. It was beyond comprehension. That was his son. That was a thing that had been newly introduced to the world. One did not leave such a helpless, vulnerable being alone in the bloody Black house!

Worriedly, Weasley leaned over the boy, and was satisfied with what he saw. Try as he might, Draco could not share the same view, and could only hope that Ron Weasley knew what a healthy, breathing baby looked like.

Like a big dumb idiot, Weasley sat on Hermione's bed and began opening envelopes. Draco sneered at the amount of time it took Weasley to read just one letter, and then rolled his eyes when he saw that the freak actually meant to answer it. _Fan mail_, Draco concluded, looking at the stuffed bag Ron had dragged down from the attic. _How pathetic._

Time passed too swiftly for Draco. How long had it been, exactly, since Lawrence last made a sound? Or, worse yet, what if he had emitted a noise, and Ron Weasley simply did not care? His fear amounting into something like panic, Draco swiftly flew from one window to the other, hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy.

Hermione would be devastated if something happened to Lawrence. Draco did not wish to cause her more pain.

Then, just when he felt he would explode with tension, Draco tapped on the window nearest to the cradle, and swiftly switched to the other. It was enough of a disturbance to make Ron pause. Nervously, the boy stood, and walked to the dusty cradle.

"Lawrence?" Draco could read on his lips. Imbecile. What did he expect? A reply?

But Weasley kept repeating his son's name like a hopeless moron. Draco watched in bewilderment as he began to yell at the resting baby. Terror seized the boy, for he looked around the room as if crazed, searching amongst the papers and books with clear desperation.

It was too much. Draco could not have his son around the dangerous lunatic. He moved to open the window when Weasley's face shuttered with decision. He grabbed the small bundle from the cradle, and ran out of sight.

He was stunned. Ron Weasley had a temper, everybody knew that. And he loved Hermione; that was also common knowledge. But he had no idea…for god's sake, Lawrence was just a baby.

Snapping from his own shock, Draco swooped to the lower level windows, catching a glimpse of Ron just before he ducked into the fire place. "Weasley!" he roared as he soared to the front steps. Irritated by the cloak, he struggled to shed it as he banged against the locked door. From inside, he could hear the boy yell out "St. Mungo's," in a desperate, fearful voice.

"Damn it, Weasley," Draco yelled again, knowing but ignoring the futility of his cries. Automatically, Draco reached for his wand, and swore filthily when he remembered it had been confiscated. He hadn't practised wandless magic for so long that he doubted he could summon the skill in time to reach the mad man who had just taken his son. With a frustrated snarl, he concentrated and watched the locks explode and crumble before he kicked the door open.

As he skidded to a halt before the fire place, Draco noted the jagged pieces of pottery on the floor, littering the messy piles of floo powder seeping through the cracks in the floorboards. That calculating bastard! Malfoy originally believed that Weasley hadn't heard him when he had called out, but he must have, to ensure that nobody could follow.

He paused for just a moment, before making a painful decision. With narrowed eyes, he looked at the empty fire place, before racing up the stairs and seizing Harry's owl, which had been sitting on a perch in the window sill.

Quickly, he scribbled a note:

_Ron's gone mad and taken Lawrence. Help me get him—I have no wand. Draco_

"You get this to Hermione or so help me you will be nothing but a pillow," he threatened the animal before launching the bird out the window. He was physically shaking with anger, more furious that Weasley should take rightful Malfoy property than actually concerned with Lawrence's well being. Gritting his teeth, Draco shook off his distracting anger and Apparated.

Many people screamed when Draco Malfoy, known fugitive and possible mass murderer, popped into view at the fountain of St. Mungo's Hospital.

There was a large desk close to the entrance, and a knowledgeable looking woman sitting behind it. At first, Draco had ignored it and, despite her calls, tried to find Weasley himself. But there were too many hall ways and numerous amount of rooms to explore, and all were crowded with injured or ill people. All around him, there were gasps of surprise and yelps of his name. Ron could have darted into any of them, or taken one of the lifts…With a frustrated growl, Draco stalked back to the desk.

"The dead Weasley just came in here," he told her in between breaths. "With a baby, where is he?"

She was caught off guard by, not only his appearance, but also his forceful demands. "Draco Malfoy?"

"He has _my son_, where is he?"

The woman wished to answer, apparently frightened by his growing agitation, when her aged eyes focused on something over his shoulder. Furious that anything else should capture her attention, Draco turned as well…

Only to be struck by one enraged Harry Potter, who put all his pitiful strength into the blow.

Harry punched him once more, landing a hard one to his temple. Draco caught the familiar scent of the one who started the whole bloody mess, but then lost consciousness at Hermione Granger's feet.

xoxox

**In an innocent way, I thought it could stay with us both on the ground  
With us fooling around  
Let's just stay on the ground  
Let's stay fooling around on the ground**

**Elevator, by Hot Hot Heat**


End file.
